


when all this is over, where do we stand

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Found Family, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Light Angst, M/M, Oblivious Keith (Voltron), POV Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Post Season 8, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Build, Slow Burn, but we love him anyways, canonverse, ish, lance is kind of an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-08-25 20:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 84,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16667827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Keith has been many things---the unexpected Garrison recruit, the Red Paladin, the Black Paladin, the Marmoran soldier, the leader of Voltron. He is one of five at the forefront of a war. He is clumsy with words. He has a temper that sometimes gets the better of him. He is his mother’s son, with her knife at his back to prove it. He is a leader, maybe not innately, but he manages with the help of his friends.Keith steadies his hands over the helm of his lion. Her displays flicker, his resolve does not. He breathes deep, leaning into the dive before it begins. “Team. Form Voltron!”*A series of canonverse oneshots about Keith, beginning during his time at the Garrison and continuing throughout canon events. Slow build but eventual klance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite type of fic has always been the kind that’s happening ‘between the pages’ of the story, or ‘just offscreen.’ This collection of oneshots is meant to be like that, focusing on Keith and his relationships with the other paladins. (and the character development we kiiiiiinda didnt get in canon)

***

 

_ The Galaxy Garrison, Arizona, United States, Earth, Copernican System, Orion Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy.  _

 

Civilians, students, and military personal alike pass over the institution’s logo on the floor of the main entrance of The Galaxy Garrison. The first time Keith entered the impressive atrium and walked over those G’s as a new recruit, it left him feeling very small. 

 

The feeling abates somewhat with the advent of a friendly face. Shiro touches his shoulder, “Keith. Let’s show you around, huh?” 

 

Keith nods, uncharacteristically shy. He follows Shiro’s lead. 

 

He finds, once classes begin, the same logo is emblazoned above every blackboard in every lecture hall. On the walls of every building, every hallway, spaced apart in regular intervals: Big G, little G. A few steps. Big G, little G. A few steps. Big G, little G. 

 

In the cafeteria, the logo is on the center of the tray and on the plate Keith sets atop it. The cafeteria---or is he supposed to call it a mess hall now?---wouldn’t be complete without a massive, bus-sized pair of G’s swathed over the largest wall. The flatware is surprisingly unbranded, though not for lack of intention, Keith’s certain. 

 

Same logo marks the entrance to his dorm (barracks?). It’s on the bottom of his boots and the tops of his regulation socks. It’s even on the handle of his toothbrush. 

 

Well. There’s very little chance he’ll forget where he is. 

 

Keith doesn’t fidget in his uniform the way some of the new cadets do. He’s worn far more uncomfortable clothes than these. Orange may not be his color, but he’s happy to be here. 

 

Three weeks in and it’s like he’s never lived anywhere else. 

Four-and-a-half weeks in and it’s evident that he’s not going to make any friends. 

 

Keith’s not all that impressed with the split lip that gets him hauled into the CO’s office before first semester midterms. He’s even less impressed with the shithead who gave it to him. 

 

It’s the fact that Shiro is called in to the office as well that makes Keith clench his teeth and bite back tears. 

 

_ “You can’t give up on yourself.”  _

 

Shiro’s words make Keith’s head ache more than the casual acquaintance of his jaw and James Griffin’s fist ever could. In terms of impression, Takashi Shirogane has made more of an impression on him than all other aspects of the Galaxy Garrison and all its G’s combined. 

 

There’s no logical answer why Shiro---someone who is good and bright and successful and well-liked---there’s no logical answer as to  _ why _ he believes in Keith, only numerous examples in word and deed that he  _ does. _ The man has inexplicably, unexpectedly---almost irrationally---put his faith into Keith. No one else has  _ ever _ ....why?

 

Keith accepts it. His father died when he was eight, leaving him alone. He doesn’t know his mother. He’s the best pilot in his class. He has a paper due at 0800 hours tomorrow. His boots are one size too big. And Shiro is on his side. 

 

These are the facts. 

 

He swipes his ID to get into the dorm building. 

 

He holds his head high as he walks past a gaggle of second years. Each one of them eyes his swollen face and draws their own conclusion. Keith decides that caring what they think is a luxury he can no longer afford. If Shiro is going to believe in him, then he needs to become someone worth believing in. No more fights. He’ll try. 

 

A second swipe gets him into the common room. His door is the second one from the left. The door next to his is open. 

 

“Eat shit and die, McClain.” 

 

A nervous laugh. “I told you my luck would change, O’Neill!” 

 

Keith pauses for a moment in the doorway. There’s a group of guys in the room next to his, sprawled out over the floor and the bottom bunk. They’re out of regulation dress code, uncomfortable uniform tops hanging open or pulled off entirely, in favor of tee shirts or undershirts instead. Pants rolled up, belts thrown aside, shoes off. There’s a guy on the top bunk, asleep in just his boxers, a textbook ( _ Fundamentals of Engineering Thermodynamics, Sixth Edition _ , a scintillating read, no doubt) cracked over his eyes to block out any offending light. The rest of them are slouched over some beat up playing cards, lined up haphazardly on the floor between them. They seem like old buddies, hanging out. 

 

Except one of them, a lanky guy with a deep complexion. He has his collar unbuttoned, but he’s still way too stiff compared to the rest of the group. His hands---long fingers, broad palms, too large for the rest of him, like he’s not done growing---betray his false confidence as he hesitantly pulls a small pile of stuff towards his side of the circle. Candy, a half-empty box of cigarettes, a couple of meal tickets, a data chip. The guy on the other side of him pops his gum aggressively while gathering up the playing cards. He shuffles the deck, eyebrows raised at the other players, wordlessly suggesting something cruel. The first guy doesn’t seem to catch on. 

 

Keith shifts in the doorway, about to head into his room. He inadvertently calls their attention. 

 

“Keith!” 

 

Keith blinks at the sound of his name. He didn’t expect for anyone to know it. He certainly doesn’t know theirs. He turns back to the game. 

 

“You want us to deal you in?”

 

The guy who asks is the lanky, clueless one who just won. Keith recognizes him as being loud in one of the sim groups. Their schedule varies so they fly with different people depending on the day. This guy is from the C Block schedule, Keith is sure of that, although he still doesn’t remember his name. Brandon? Landon? He could be way off. 

 

“Deal him in?” A kid with mousy brown hair and more than a smattering of acne scoffs. “Fuck off McClain. Kogane’s got a stick so far up his ass---” 

 

“Dude, chill, I was just offer---” 

 

“What he said,” Keith cuts them both off, one hand raised in goodbye.

 

The door behind Keith clicks shut, leaving him in blessed silence. His roommate isn’t back yet, meaning he has the room to himself. Four walls and the space between, all to himself. Unheard of since he was a kid. Keith unties his shoes, tucking the laces into them before lining them up neatly next to his desk. He unbuttons his shirt, hanging up the uniform so it doesn’t wrinkle before he settles onto his bed. He should work on that paper that’s due tomorrow, but his head is aching and a nap undisturbed sounds like heaven. 

 

He turns down the blankets and a pair of G’s greet him on his pillowcase. He won’t forget where he is, or how he got here. 

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

 

***

 

_ Abandoned cabin in the Sonoran Desert, approximately ten miles outside of the Galaxy Garrison main campus, Arizona, United States, Earth, Copernican System, Orion Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy.  _

 

Keith grips the fork too hard and stirs the macaroni and cheese more aggressively than necessary. Almost like if he puts enough effort into the process, it’ll make up for the fact that he omitted the milk. (It won’t). But, milk needs a fridge, and a fridge is too expensive. Not to mention, a fridge would drain precious energy from his small generator far too quickly. No milk. 

 

Once he judges that the orange powder is sufficiently mixed with the water and the noodles, Keith pulls the saucepan off the hot plate. He checks once more to make sure the dial on the hot plate is turned to ‘off,’ before carrying the saucepan with him to the couch. He sits cross legged, balancing the pan on top of a towel so the bottom doesn’t burn his legs. 

 

He eats his dinner. 

 

This is his last box of macaroni. He has four large containers of drinking water, three cans of beans, one can of corn that he doesn’t remember buying, and a Chef Boyardee left in his inventory. He’s been saving the ravioli. For what, exactly, he couldn’t say. 

 

It’s been eight months since he was booted from the Garrison. Almost nine, it’ll be nine in a week. He’s trying not to keep track of the days. He’s failing. 

 

When he’s finished eating, he pushes the saucepan to the side. He uncrosses his legs, feet to the floor as though he might get up. He doesn’t. He draws a blanket around his shoulders, forearms on his thighs, head in his hands. 

 

It’s quiet. He misses his radio. He pawned it for supplies. Same with his camera. 

 

He needs more supplies, but he’s rapidly running out of things to sell. 

 

There’s an older man at the gas station where Keith has been getting his food. He might own the station, or maybe he works there, or maybe he’s just always there because he has nowhere else to be. The last time Keith was there, the two of them talked---mostly because everything in Keith is screaming for some kind of human contact after so much isolation. He would have talked to anyone about anything...but the old man was nice. He admired Keith’s speeder---she’s nothing too special, but Keith has taken good care of her and it shows. 

 

The old man said that he knows someone, in the city, who would give Keith a good price on the speeder. It’s a tempting offer. The amount the man named was nothing short of generous. With the money, Keith would have plenty for a couple months’ rent, if the place was cheap. Probably even some left over to give him enough time to get on his feet. He could get a place in Phoenix, start working. He graduated from high school; that counts for something. And no one would know that he was booted from the Garrison. He could wash dishes, or do some kind of manual labor, maybe learn a trade. 

 

He could start over. 

 

**_Pilot error._ **

 

The image---Shiro in his flight suit, smiling, the picture the Garrison used for his memorial service---flashes in front of his eyes and Keith feels sick to his stomach. He lifts his head, looks towards the wall covered in maps and research and information from months of effort. 

 

“This is pointless.” 

 

His voice is raspy with disuse. It sounds terrible, pained. He clears his throat and repeats himself, louder, practically shouting: “This is  _ pointless _ .” 

 

He gets up, throwing a sheet over the board he’s made with his findings. “Findings.” Yeah right. Just maps and speculation and inconsistencies and--- 

 

And bullshit. That leads him nowhere. 

 

And Shiro isn’t here and nothing he’s found or not found will change that fact. 

 

_ “I will never give up on you.”  _

 

Tomorrow. Keith decides. Tomorrow he’ll take the speeder to the gas station. He’ll ask the old man if the offer still stands. He’ll start over. He’ll give up. 

 

*

 

He doesn’t. 

 

*

 

It’s three nights later that something streaks, blazing and absurd, across the wide Arizona sky. Keith grabs his pack, secures a cloth over the bottom half of his face, and pushes the throttle forward on his speeder. 

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

 

***

 

_ Hunk’s room, The Castle of Lions, Orbiting planet Auriga, Ptolemy System, Milky Way Galaxy.  _

 

“Well hey, fancy seeing you here. Dropout.” 

 

Keith turns from his place on the floor of Hunk’s room. He looks up at Lance standing in the doorway. “Excuse me?” 

 

“Oh, I think you heard me just fine. Unless your tragically out-of-style hair is blocking your ears, in which case, I’m willing to repeat myself, just let me know.” Lance grins, cocky and obnoxious. He leans against Hunk’s doorway and puts his hands behind his head in an exaggerated pose of nonchalance. “I’ll wait.” 

 

“I heard you.” Keith grits out. He’s trying not to lose his temper. The team’s mental exercises this morning went well; they were able to form Voltron without any issues. Getting along is important. He’s trying to adjust to being part of a team. He doesn’t want to fight. 

 

“Interesting that you respond to the name ‘dropout’ then, dropout.  _ Veeeery _ telling.”

 

Keith gets to his feet. 

 

Hunk makes a distressed noise, somewhere between  _ ‘don’t’ _ and the feeling of  _ ‘c’mon guys, not again.’  _

 

Keith gives him a look, which is supposed to be reassuring, but probably just looks enraged, if Hunk’s reaction is any indicator. 

 

It’s so  _ frustrating.  _

 

*

 

A few hours ago, after the five paladins finished their morning training, Keith was in high spirits. 

 

It’s been a lot to process, finding Shiro again, and then immediately being enlisted in an intergalactic war that’s been raging for hundreds of years. Not to mention the fact that he’s now one of five humans at the helm of what is supposedly the grandest weapon in the universe.  

 

Yeah. 

 

But flying the red lion is like an adrenaline rush the likes of which Keith has never known. And connecting with his co-pilots through Voltron...it’s like Keith has unlocked previously unknown levels of affection. He’s never felt so close to people before, never. He barely knows these people, but at the same time, he feels so strongly about each of them. It’s been mere weeks since they met, but already they hold his heart in their hands. Their bond is fragile, but it runs deep. It’s thrilling, it’s terrifying, it’s something Keith has never imagined---that a connection so precious and so powerful would belong in part to him. 

 

He can’t put it into words, but when he exits the red lion and meets with Shiro prior to the group’s debrief with Allura and Coran, he’s thrumming with it. Devotion and sentiment and inimitable  _ potential _ \---

 

“Shiro---did you feel---we’re getting better at this,” 

 

Shiro smiles at him, pulls off his helmet, tilts his head. They begin walking towards the common room. “I agree. The team’s already come a long way from where we started. Hard to believe, considering where we were a couple weeks ago.” 

 

Keith nods, happy that Shiro understands. He’s changed, of course he’s changed, but he still understands Keith in the same way that he did when they first met. Keith continues, “Hunk especially, did you notice? He’s getting so much more comfortable with flying. Night and day from when we left Earth. I’m impressed.”

 

“You should tell him that.” 

 

Keith blanches. “No. He wouldn’t---” It’s one thing to feel connected when their flying together. But the other pilots, they were at the Garrison together. They’re friends. Keith wasn’t. Isn’t. And he’s not---well, he’s not the greatest at words. What if he offends Hunk accidentally?  

 

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice is gentle. They’ve arrived at the common room. They don’t even have to open the door to hear Pidge and Lance squawking at each other, and Coran’s colorful, misguided attempts at refereeing (as far as Keith can tell, Coran has yet to solve any arguments, but does occasionally escalate them into actual fights, usually involving complex Altean dueling etiquette). “He won’t bite.”

 

Keith gives him a sour look because, honestly, what a lame thing to say. 

 

Shiro cuts him off before Keith can retort, an easy snort crossing his lips at the scowl on Keith’s face. “Just think about it.” 

 

Keith does think about it. 

 

Later that evening, after they are done training for the day, Keith stops by Hunk’s room. 

 

Hunk is a genuinely good guy, as far as Keith can tell. If he’s surprised to see Keith at his door, he doesn’t show it. He invites Keith in without a second thought, already pulling him into a conversation: 

 

“Keith! Awesome, perfect, I could use your help! If you don’t mind?” 

 

“Uh. Sure?” Keith lifts his hands in what’s hopefully an agreeable gesture, if not a little confused. “What do you need me to do?” 

 

“Do?” Hunk’s already back at his desk. He has a pencil tucked behind one ear, he retrieves it and makes some notes on one of the numerous notepads strewn over his workspace. “No,” he pauses and writes something else down, “You don’t need to do anything, I just need like, your opinion.” 

 

“Oh.” Keith nods. He can do that. Probably. “My opin--uh, no prob. Go ahead, shoot.” 

 

“Okay so, I was taking stock of the Castleships’s supplies, y’know, spare parts, tools, all that---because, like it or not, we’re gonna get into battles and who’s gonna be managing the lions’ repairs---that’d be me, engineer, duh---” he trails off. “Dude, you can like, sit. If you want.” 

 

Keith blinks. There’s not really anywhere  _ to _ sit---sitting on the bed would be weird right? Because they’re not that close and he doesn’t want Hunk to think that  _ he _ thinks they’re close---

 

Keith plops down on the floor. He pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms around them so he doesn’t take up the whole floor. 

 

Hunk squints down at him from the desk chair. 

 

Keith urges him to continue, “You’re the engineer…” 

 

“Yeah.” Hunk says, slowly regaining his train of thought. “Yeah. I mean, these lions might be magical, or whatever, but when you get down to it, a cracked turbine bypass valve, is a cracked turbine bypass valve, you know what I mean?” he laughs. 

 

“Um. Yeah. Sort of.” 

 

Hunk twirls the pencil in his hand. “Annnyways, so I was looking through the supplies we have on deck---man, lemme tell you, these alien kits are wild, you wouldn’t believe---but again, not the point. Regardless,” Hunk finishes, pulling out something from the side of his desk. “I found this.” 

 

He holds out what appears to be a sheet of metal. 

 

“Good?” Keith tries. 

 

“Great.” Hunk corrects. He turns it over, flipping it around so that Keith can see. The explanation goes over Keith’s head, but from what he can understand, there’s a heating element on the bottom of the sheet, so it will get hot, and Hunk outfitted it with a gauge to control the temperature. It reminds Keith a little of his hot plate back in the desert, except this is bigger and flat and---

 

“It’s…a griddle.” Keith finally gets it. “You made a griddle.” 

 

Hunk leans forward in his chair, “Now he gets it. And so. I have one question for you. Don’t let me down. This is the big one.” He inhales. “Blueberry or chocolate chip pancakes?” 

 

“Blueberry,” Keith responds immediately. 

 

“Keith.” Hunk’s tone is grave. “I knew you were a man of excellent tastes.” 

 

Keith grins. 

 

Hunk is happy now, he continues talking, explaining that he’s already talked to Pidge about developing a software that can scan nearby planets for food, including plants, including blueberry-esque things. Keith listens, legitimately interested. It’s amazing what two geniuses and some ancient alien tech can conjure up. 

 

They continue talking for a bit, and that’s when Lance enters the picture. 

 

“Dropout.” Lance says it with a sneer. 

 

It’s so frustrating, because it’s  _ always _ like this. Keith will just be minding his own business and out of nowhere, Lance will say something snide: 

 

When they’re training: “Oh lookit me, I’m Keith~! With my flowing onyx locks and masterful sword technique! I spend three gazillion hours in the training hall a day and fight Zarkon with one hand behind my back!”

 

When they’re mid-battle: “Okay, Keith, I know you’re like, hot-blooded, _ I run fast I fly fast I stab fast, _ but dearest mullet, mind if you pull back for a Arusian second and  _ share your plan with the rest of the class?! _ ”  

 

When they’re at breakfast: “Keith, I get that you were raised by desert wolves or scorpions or whatever, but would it kill you to keep your disgusting fashion disaster jacket off the table?”

 

When Keith is literally just walking down the hall: “Dude!!!! My eyes!!!! You can’t just like, walk around, half naked alright?! There are women and children here! And Coran!! Show some decency, god!” 

 

When Keith thinks they  _ finally _ might get along: “Nope! Don’t remember it! Didn’t happen!” 

 

It’s so  _ frustrating. _

 

*

 

Now, Lance waltzes into Hunk’s room like it’s his own and flops down onto the bed. “I can’t believe I’m so bored I’m willingly spending time with  _ Keith _ .” 

 

“Actually.” Keith moves to the door. “I was just going. Um. Thanks, Hunk.” He leaves without a second glance. 

 

“Jeez, man,  _ what _ is his  _ problem _ ?” he hears Lance gripe behind him. 

 

Honestly? He’d like to ask Lance the same question. 

 

***


	4. Chapter 4

***

 

_Library, The Castle of Lions, just past Mu Eridani, Achernar System, Phaëton Galaxy._

 

Keith is very nearly asleep when he hears someone stumble across the library’s threshold. Literally stumble.

 

‘Library’ is the term he’s chosen to use for the Castleship’s archive room. There’s shelves of datapads and various old texts stacked around and desks and armchairs clearly meant for reading, so it seems appropriate. No one else has called it that, or mentioned the room at all, so Keith may or may not be correct, but he figures it doesn’t really matter anyways. The room is nestled deep in the ship, far away from the noisy bridge or the training halls. A good twenty minute walk from their living quarters. It seems to run a bit hotter than the rest of the ship; Keith thinks that it might be close to the Balmeran crystal powering the Castle, which might explain the difference in temperature, but that’s just his theory.

 

At any rate, it’s quiet and dark and warm.

 

A very good place to nap after training.

 

Until this exact moment.

 

The room has a sunken floor plan, two steps down from the hallway. Lance trips over both of these, nearly falling but ultimately staying upright after some stumbling, a few bounces on one leg, and a good bit of arm flailing.

 

There goes peace and quiet.

 

“Phew,” he breathes. “Made it.”

 

“Barely,” Keith agrees.

 

Lance shrieks.

 

“Relax.” Keith holds one arm up in what’s meant to be a placating motion. “It’s me, Keith.”

 

“Of course it is,” Lance grumbles under his breath, one hand still pressed to his chest. “Who else would be here, sitting in the dark, waiting for me to fall over and break my neck so he can officially have the last laugh?”

 

There’s so much wrong with that statement, Keith can’t even begin to address it. He tries: “I wasn’t waiting for you.”

 

Lance shoots him a nasty glare.

 

Keith sits up in the armchair. He considers putting his boots back on to leave, but it seems unfair. He was here first. Lance just barged in. He doesn’t want to fight!!

 

“Look, if you want to stay here that’s fine with me, but can you please stay quiet?”

 

Lance looks around, incredulous, like there’s an audience, like _can you believe this guy??_ “Excuse me? Excuuuuse me?”

 

Keith crosses his arms. “I mean, I was here first.”

 

Lance regards him with open mouthed disbelief.

 

“And I was resting.”

 

Lance puts up one finger, like, _hold on a second_ , before making a show of searching his pockets with both hands, patting himself down.

 

“What are you doing?” Keith says, exasperated.

 

“Looking for my comm,” Lance replies. “Because, obviously, I need to call and tell Allura that she’s no longer the princess of this castle. Keith has clearly taken over that role in full.”

 

“Huh?” Keith feels his brows knit in confusion. “Don’t? Do that?”

 

Lance barks out a laugh, bright and full, with his head thrown back. “Oh, Keith.”

 

“What?”

 

Lance shakes his head. He shoves his hands in his pockets, finally taking a proper look around the room. The ceilings are high and when Lance whistles, rolling upwards on the balls of his feet,  a sweet, almost ethereal echo follows. “This place is cool though. How’d you find it?”

 

Keith considers going into details about exploring the ship and how this room is dark and warm and his theory about the crystal, but that seems like a lot of talking, and Lance probably doesn’t care. He shrugs. “Dunno.”

 

“Okay, hotshot, don’t want to share, that’s fine.”

 

“It’s not that---how’d _you_ find it then?!”

 

Lance suddenly looks...self-conscious? It’s a strange expression on his normally brazen face. “I was just, you know, taking a walk.”

 

Keith nods.

 

Lance must think that Keith means the nod in an encouraging way because he all but collapses onto the arm of the chair Keith is curled up in. Keith draws his feet in closer so that Lance could sit down properly if he really wanted to, but Lance doesn’t seem to notice. Keith watches the way his hands move in front of him, darting through the air, adding nuance to certain words while he talks.

 

“I just needed to think for a little bit, and I figured a walk would help. Clear my mind and all that. I’ve been dealing with some stuff. Nothing I can’t handle!!!” He waves his hands rapidly, like he’s dispelling anything bad Keith might have to say in response. “Obviously,”  

 

Keith just looks at him. A little confused.

 

“I mean, I know we’ve got a pretty important job up here and all that, but you know, sometimes I just feel like I really miss home?” He takes a deep breath, continuing the rant. “And, of course, I’m happy we’re here, I love flying Blue and seeing all the cool space stuff, and being the good guys and all that, but. I miss my mom and my older sisters and I don’t know dude.” Lance shakes his head. “I was talking with Hunk and Pidge right now and,” he squeezes one hand into a fist and knocks it against his chest. “I just really miss them.”

 

“Uh, what about Hunk?” Keith asks, not fully following. “Isn’t he from the same place as you?” Just based on their interactions, it seems like Hunk and Lance have always known each other. Keith figured their relationship went back way further than the Garrison.

 

Lance looks sideways at Keith. “Nah, Hunk was the roomie I was assigned at the Garrison. He’s a great guy, but he’s not who I grew up with.”

 

Keith tilts his head, raises his eyebrows in slight surprise. Lance starts talking about home, mind and heart back on Earth:

 

“Alec was so good at _futbal_ , good enough that he was scouted---but, get this, he wanted to paint. I was so proud when he was accepted into his dream art school. His ma was mad he turned down the sports scholarship, but it wasn’t what he wanted.” Lance gets a faraway smile. “He’s probably made it up to her by now,” Lance leans forward, happy memories rapidly tumbling out of his mouth now that he’s started. “Devon was---man, I miss him---he was so funny. He has the quickest mouth. In elementary, he’d have the whole class laughing. Shit, even as we got older, he’d just turn and say something and me and Luis would be _rolling_.”

 

“And Lu.” Lance looks heavenward and despite the dim light, Keith can see his eyes have gone all shimmery. “Before I left for the Garrison, he asked me if I would be his best man. His best man! We were only 17! He was going to propose to Marie on their anniversary. Jesus, I remember how nervous he was when he asked her out, summer before freshman year.” Lance shakes his head.

 

Keith feels a pang of something sharp. It’s not jealousy, not exactly, but what must it be like to be so full of _good?_ What must it be like to grow up like this? And how much more difficult does that make being away?

 

Lance continues. “Yeah, Pidge and Hunk, Shiro, and---and you---you guys are like, great and all.” He sombers. “I trust you with my life.” The constant motion of his hands while he talks flutters to a stop. “But. You’re not.”

 

“We’re not your friends.” Keith finishes, sudden clarity dawning on him.

 

Lance flinches like he’s been caught. “Don’t you,” he clears his throat, uncharacteristic for Lance. When he resumes, it’s with a different tense, unconsciously-- “didn’t you have buddies growing up? That you miss?”

 

Keith thinks back to his childhood, considering, when no one face immediately comes to mind. He can remember bits and pieces of kindness--a girl who occasionally gave him her pudding cup, which he’d save to eat on the bus ride home, hunched in the seat, blessedly unnoticed. A boy, maybe his age, maybe younger, who would shush him and then grin past his finger like they were sharing a secret joke. A teacher, or two. He doesn’t remember most of their names. He was shuffled around quite a bit until high school, and by then he’d learned to keep to himself.

 

One face has a name: Sam. Older than him, tall and wiry. Keith had been a scrawny kid, and Sam towers over him in his memory, a pasty pale face sneering down his nose, eyes hard under close cropped sandy blonde hair. He terrorized Keith, with a hate so intense that, in retrospect, there’s no way Keith could have earned it. He was clever about it too; bruises were left only where they would not be noticed, threats whispered directly against his ear, while he was held in place with a violent grip.

 

Keith shifts. He hasn’t thought about Sam in years. He twitches, ever so slightly, flicking hair out of his eyes as he pushes the memory back down. The answer to Lance’s question is short on his lips. “No. I don’t.”

 

Lance looks crestfallen at this and Keith feels irrationally guilty.

 

“Sorry,” he offers.

 

“No, man,” Lance gets up, looks uncomfortable again. “I should say sorry. I just barged in here and mega unloaded on you. So not cool.”

 

Keith raises his eyebrows. Lance is usually such an asshole. But right now, he’s apologizing? Well, kinda. This is…strange? “It’s okay.”

 

Lance rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll get out of your hair now, but, uh, thanks for listening.” He turns, ready to head out of the room.

 

“You can stay.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Keith waves his hand in an vague gesture, indicating the multiple chairs. “There’s plenty of space for both of us.”

 

“Right.” Lance mechanically makes his way over to an armchair across from Keith. He hurls himself down (it seems Lance is incapable of just _sitting_ ), head tilted over the back of the chair, legs wide. He drums his fingers over the armrests, then seems to realize he’s being a nuisance and stills.

 

A minute passes, maybe two. This is the quietest Keith has ever heard Lance. It’s nice. Keith resumes his almost-nap.

 

“Heh.”

 

Keith opens his eyes. With Lance’s head tilted back, he can see the long column of his neck, the way his adams apple bobs as he repeats the chuckle.

 

“What?” Keith asks.

 

“Plenty of _space._ ” Lance repeats, with a snort.

 

Keith gets it. He rolls his eyes, but he cracks a smile as well. “Yeah.”

 

“Hunk would love that.” Lance sits up, drawing his long legs underneath him, so he’s sitting cross-legged.

 

“Hunk would _say_ that,” Keith corrects. “And then explain.”

 

Lance laughs, sounding way too fond. “And then Pidge would one up him, with something better.”

 

“I probably wouldn’t get it.”

 

“Neither would I!” Lance pokes the air between them, leaning forward. “But I would pretend that I did.” He nods.

 

“Shiro would act like he’s trying to keep the peace, but then actually just want to make his own lame joke.” Keith suggests.

 

Lance groans. “And it would be so lame.”

 

“Shiro can be funny!” Keith protests. “Kind of.”

 

Lance raises an eyebrow in contention. “I’ve yet to hear it.”

 

“You will.” Keith decides.

 

Lance grins at him, all easy and lopsided. “Hey Keith.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Lance has one elbow propped on his knee. He rests his cheek against his fist, relaxed. “Thanks.”

 

Keith doesn’t want to question ‘for what?’ and he feels awkward saying ‘you’re welcome,’ so he just nods.

 

When Lance leaves the library a few minutes later, Keith feels a strange sort of happiness start to uncurl from his gut into his chest. It warms his cheeks. It makes his hands unsteady when he places cool fingertips to his temples. It feels unfamiliar. It doesn’t feel wrong.

 

***


	5. Chapter 5

***

 

_ The red lion, deep space, somewhere between the Almach and Mirach Systems, Andromeda Galaxy.  _

 

Keith adjusts his headings with deft fingers. The once anomalous dashboard, a myriad of screens and buttons, is second nature to him now. A few of the more bizarre instruments have handmade labels over them, leftovers from when they first arrived in space. An attempt to translate the alien tech into an Earth pilot’s language. Pidge’s scrawl and Hunk’s careful block letters spell out familiar words: ‘fuel pressure,’ ‘heading indicator,’ ‘vert/lat velocity.’ 

 

Lance took the liberty of adding some of his own, pasted haphazardly over the dash when Keith wasn’t looking. Lance’s loopy handwriting indicates an ‘awesome factor’ (it appears dangerously low, in Keith’s case), ‘quintessence tank,’ and over the red bayard’s dock: ‘B.A.M.F.’ 

 

Keith absentmindedly uses his thumbnail to press down on one of the small stickers where it’s come unglued around the edge. He doesn’t need the labels for reference anymore. Hasn’t for awhile. But he won’t remove them. 

 

Satisfied with the course, he turns the controls over to Red herself. She curls up, content to drift, ears flicking now and again at stray signals finding their way through the stars. 

 

Keith settles back into the sloped seat of Red’s cockpit. Draws one knee up, rests his cheek against it, closes his eyes. 

 

He hasn’t come here to fly. He’s come here to think. 

 

Following his trial with the Blade of Marmora, Kolivan boarded the Castleship. The next several varga were a whirlwind: a rigorous schedule of meetings to exchange vital information, delegation of tasks between the Blade and the members of Voltron, briefing on their missions…

 

He needed to endure the trial at the Blade, to fight. He needed to keep his mind sharp during the negotiations. He needed to focus on the team, focus on the missions. Every extraneous thought, every reaction he might have had to his alien ancestry, every  _ emotion _ , was pushed to the side. Neatly packaged and mentally filed under ‘not dealing with that right now.’ 

 

Keith hasn’t had a chance to really consider what he experienced. Or. He frowns, down into his lap. Not just what he experienced. What he learned about himself. 

 

He unpacks it slowly. 

 

Galran blood. 

 

Logically, it makes no sense. Afterall, what are the odds? Back in high school, that Shiro would show up during second period, smack dab in the middle of Algebra and Trig, with a good-natured smile and a modular sim to fly? That Keith would steal his Garrison issued vehicle, but instead of expulsion, it would result in Shiro’s recommendation that Keith be fast-tracked as a pilot? 

 

What are the odds that Shiro would be abducted while on the Kerberos mission? And that Keith would put everything else aside, and refuse to stop searching for him? That, along with finding Shiro, he would be one of five to discover Voltron? 

 

That, somehow, being galaxies and light years and innumerable planets  _ away _ from Earth would lead him closer to himself?

 

That doesn’t seem like chance. That seems like fate.  

 

And attributing all this to fate is not logical, but logic is more Pidge and Hunk’s bag anyways. Keith has always been an instinct, go-with-your-gut kind of guy. And when his knife lengthened in his palm, swift and lethal and supposedly commanded by his blood alone, everything in Keith spoke out in a resounding:  _ Yes. This is yours. This is you.   _

 

That’s enough for him. 

 

Keith sighs. 

 

Galran ancestry. 

 

Seems like a cruel cosmic joke that he should finally find a home among a group of people, only to abruptly learn that---at his very core---he’s something they have only known as an enemy. 

 

Almost like the universe is echoing every disillusioned social worker he managed to piss off, every teacher with a decade old bachelor’s degree allowing them a soapbox, every guidance counselor burning through their nine-to-five,  _ every single person _ who said about Keith Kogane: oh _ that _ kid? 

 

You’d be better off steering clear. He won’t amount to anything but trouble. 

 

As he grew older, Keith never paid them much mind, because, really, what did they know? 

 

But, turns out, mistrust stings a lot more when it comes from people you care about. 

 

He can’t unhear the shocked silence that directly followed the reveal. The first intake of breath----Allura, it had to have been Allura---and the chatter that followed.

 

He closes his eyes. 

 

_ (Keith is…? _

 

_ Galra Keith! _

 

_ Fascinating. I wonder how an alien genome alters a human’s biology. I’m talking like at a molecular level. This is insane! This is unheard of! It could manifest in so many different ways, we don’t--- _

 

_ Pidge, he’s not a science experiment.  Besides, we already know how it manifested. Broody with a side of mullet. Big whoop.)  _

 

He can’t unsee the calculated looks---carefully masked behind feigned normalcy---from his co-pilots. At mealtime that night, and after, when he was getting in some rounds on the training deck, desperately trying to unwind enough to sleep---they were wary, assessing if he’s now a threat. Allura’s outright contempt, voiced in front of everyone he considers family. 

 

Even the trepidation written over the stoney faces of the Blade’s soldiers. 

 

Keith swallows. Presses the heel of his palm over one eye, then the other. 

 

He sucks in a breath. It’s alright. There’s only one person he couldn’t bear to disappoint: 

 

*

 

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice still had that post-mission, commanding edge to it. He must realize it, because he forces a smile. “You must be tired. Come with me to the medbay.” 

 

The fights with the Blade soldiers were grueling, but Keith’s injuries aren’t severe enough to warrant a healing pod, and they both know it. Shiro wants to talk. 

 

Keith follows him, eyes on Shiro’s broad back as they tread through the pristine halls of the Altean ship. Is he tenser than usual? The medbay is three flights down. Does Shiro normally stand this distance away from him in the elevator? Is his Galra arm normally at that angle while he walks? 

 

Keith swallows and tries to ignore the minute clench of Shiro’s jaw. His eyes drop to the floor. 

 

They arrive at the medbay. The three healing pods stand vacant, bathed in a soft blue light. The screens that cover the far wall are powered off. It’s quiet. 

 

Shiro stops, his human hand trailing along the wall to activate the overhead light. It doesn’t escape Keith’s notice that he’s positioned himself close to the exit, with Keith on the other side. Keith keeps the distance between them. He doesn’t meet Shiro’s eyes. 

 

“Keith. Talk to me.” 

 

“What’s there to say? I’m part-Galra, Shiro.” 

 

Keith doesn’t have to look up to know the exact expression that sits heavy on Shiro’s face. The way his eyes search, understanding and patient, waiting for Keith to work out the words.

 

He tries to help: “You said it yourself. You know who you are.” 

 

Keith drops his arms. Shiro tenses and Keith feels like he might not be able to have this conversation. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

 

If anyone has suffered at the hands of the Galra, it’s Shiro. Keith bites his lip. Shiro still has flashbacks about that time. He doesn’t know Keith and the others know. Or maybe he does, and chooses not to acknowledge it. He won’t talk about it. None of them blame him. The Galra took his arm. They took more than that. And Keith is---Keith is--- 

 

“Keith.” Shiro repeats his name. 

 

“Shiro.” Keith feels his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head---after all Shiro has done for him---to have his trust been misplaced like this---- “I’m so--” 

 

Shiro crosses the distance between them without another word. His human hand slips from the crown of Keith’s head, down the back of his neck, to rest between his shoulder blades, as Shiro pulls him close. 

 

“You know who you are, Keith,” Shiro repeats, quieter now. 

 

Keith takes comfort in the velvety tone of his voice. It sounds like lazy Sundays at the Garrison. Like a desert sunset at his back. Like easy teasing and easier encouragement. He closes his eyes and nods, head bowed. 

 

“And that is not an apology I need,” Shiro continues. “And it is not one that you owe.” 

 

Keith presses his lips together. Nods again. “I think.” Keith begins. “I think I need more time to--to sort this out.” 

 

Shiro gives Keith’s arm a squeeze before he pulls away. “In the meantime, if you need a friendly face,” he smiles. 

 

Keith manages a watery smile in return. “Thanks, Shiro.” 

 

*

 

In Red’s cockpit, Keith’s head is once more bowed. With no one there to chide him for it, he bites at a hangnail, chews his cuticles, turning everything over in his mind. 

 

He is a part of Voltron, and together with the other paladins, he is at the forefront of a battle for good. He has a knife that once belonged to his mother. He has Galran blood running through his veins. And Shiro is still on his side. 

 

These are the facts. 

 

If this is what he is, then he will own it. And it will be a part of him. But it will not define him. And he knows, deep in his soul, that he has more to find. 

 

A yellow icon pulls him out of his thoughts, unfurling on the screen with a jingle. Keith accepts the call and Hunk’s face, pinched with worry searches the cockpit around him before settling over his face. “Keith! Buddy! You doing okay out there?” 

 

“Of course he’s doing okay, Hunk, c’mon,” Lance answers for him, leaning over Hunk’s shoulder to also peer into the comm at Keith. “He just needed to be all dramatic, yanno, go out into the middle of space alone to ponder his destiny, or whatever,” 

 

“I am not!” Keith protests, but it’s drowned out as Lance steals the comm away and starts doing his best impression of Keith, while prancing around the common room, just out of Hunk’s reach. 

 

He has one hand flattened out behind his head in what is no doubt supposed to be a representation of Keith’s hair, and when he talks, it’s in the lowest tone he can rasp out: “Who am I, Red? What am I?” 

 

“Gee, Lance.” Keith crosses his arms. “Really making me feel good about myself.” 

 

Hunk giggles at this, “Galra!Keith! I’m telling you guys, he gets funnier every---” 

 

“You know,” Lance has dropped the vocal fry, and now places a finger to chin, thoughtful. “This could be a good opportunity for you, Keithy. What if we rebrand a little, set you up with a nickname? Something fun for the kids, and all that. I’m thinking, Galra Keith---GK.” 

 

“GK,” Hunk tests it out. “Huh.” 

 

“Big GK, here he isssssssssssssss,” Lance yodels out, like some kind of deranged sports announcer. 

 

“You can’t be serious,” Keith says. “Tell me you’re not serious. And what ‘kids’? What?” 

 

“GK.” Lance draws out the letters: “Giiiiiiiii Kehhhh,” 

 

“Sounds like you’re choking on your own spit,” Hunk observes. 

 

“So. Normal Lance-around-Keith-behavior, then?” Pidge interjects, without looking up from her laptop. Keith assumed she was tuning them out, but clearly not. Never underestimate Pidge. 

 

Still focused on her screen, she lifts one hand in the air. Hunk cheers and gives her a high-five as Lance’s face flowers red. “Guuuuys,” 

 

“Anyways,” Hunk says, prying the comm out of Lance’s hands, so that his face again takes up the majority of Keith’s screen. “These guys have to leave for Beta Traz at 1800 hours. I was hoping we could all eat together before then?” 

 

Keith checks his settings. Hunk has given him the exact amount of time he needs to get back to the ship and have a meal. Keith suppresses a smile. The big guy really is too smart. “I think I can manage that.” 

 

“Excellent!!” 

 

For some inexplicable reason, Lance winks at him. “We’ll see you then, GK.” 

 

“Don’t call me---” The line goes dead.

 

Shaking his head, Keith fiddles with the control column. He maps the route back to the Castleship, feeling a bit more relaxed as he punches in the coordinates. 

 

“You ready, girl?”

 

Red roars out her reply, loud enough that it shakes the cockpit. 

 

“Kept you waiting, huh?” Keith pats a hand over the dashboard. “Duly noted.” 

 

***


	6. Chapter 6

***

 

_ Dining Hall, The Castle of Lions, traveling through Cols Verga, past Puiga, Olcott System, Zubaen Galaxy.  _

 

Keith has never seen Hunk angry before. 

 

He’s seen him snarky (“Oh sure, Coran, that’s  _ exactly _ what I was planning to do with the glibglo fruit we picked up on Telsor Nine,  _ thanks _ ,”),

 

And he’s seen him cranky (“Lance, I have not slept in 72 hours trying to get Black’s kalviv pads operational for deep space---no, Shiro, stop apologizing for blowing them out  _ again _ , it’s fine---so if you could stop incessantly humming the entirety of Hot in Herre, that’d be  _ great _ ,”), 

 

And he’s seen him upset (“I just-- I just want them to be able to live their best lives, you know?” “Shh, Hunk, the space mice know that you love and support them.” “Thanks, Lance.”), 

 

But he’s never seen him angry. 

 

Until now. 

 

The crack of Hunk’s hand slamming down on the tabletop echoes throughout the dining area. All conversation grinds to a halt as four pairs of eyes---two Altean and two paladin of Voltron--- turn in their direction. 

 

Keith feels his temper flare under the heat of their attention. “You--” 

 

Hunk raises his hand from the table (for a terrible second Keith thinks he’s going to hit him; he squares his jaw, looks up at Hunk from his seat, but). The hand points at him, so angry that it trembles in mid-air in front of Keith’s face. “No. Keith.”

 

“I’m gonna go.” Hunk pushes his chair in to its proper place at the table, visibly seething. “Lost my appetite.” 

 

Everyone watches as Hunk makes his way out of the room. And then their attention settles on Keith. 

 

“Wow.”

 

“Keith.” 

 

“Jeez man, what’d you do?” 

 

Keith turns towards Lance, already seeing red. “Nothing, okay! I didn’t do anything!” 

 

He gets up in a fumble, kicking his chair out of the way. He sets his dish in the Altean version of a sink so violently that it would probably break if it wasn’t space age technology. And then he stumbles out of the room, willing the hot tears not to fall. 

 

*

 

He’s too ashamed to go to the training deck. Or back to his bedroom, where he knows someone (not Shiro, Shiro is gone, Shiro is---) will come and find him. He shouldn’t...he doesn’t… 

 

He’s halfway to Red’s hanger when he realizes that, no, that’s not---he flies Black now. 

 

He flies Black and Shiro is gone and Hunk is mad and  _ he messed up _ , he can’t do this he can’t lead, he can’t----

 

He stumbles in the hallway, catching himself with one hand against the wall. The hand tightens into a fist and Keith walks on, jaw set. He’s clenching his teeth, holding back tears,  _ just a little longer, _ he tells himself.  _ Almost there.  _

 

Desperate fingers punch in the code to get into the red lion’s hanger. Keith walks past his former ship, head ducked. Her shadow looms over him. Rather than her once welcoming cockpit, he heads instead for a small room on the other side of the hanger. It might’ve been a meeting room at one point, or a storage unit, or something else entirely, but now it’s just empty. 

 

The door clicks shut behind him, and Keith’s breath hitches. He’s standing there in the dark, hands clenched into fists at his sides, shoulders tight. And the first tear falls. 

 

And he cries, as silent as he can. His shoulders shake and he wipes the tears with one hand, but of course, they don’t stop. He drops down to the floor, wraps his arms around his legs, forehead on his knees, drawing in ragged breath after ragged breath, trying very hard not to exhale them as sobs. 

 

He hasn’t been sleeping. 

 

That’s part of why he’s so screwed up right now, he knows, but how can he sleep when he could be searching for Shiro? 

 

How can he sleep when they have absolutely no explanation for Shiro’s disappearance? How can he sleep when everyone else seems to be adjusting just fine and moving on without him?

 

He already lost Shiro once. And this. It’s like the Garrison and the Kerberos mission and  **Pilot Error** all over again, except this time,  _ he’s expected to take Shiro’s place. _

 

And there’s just no way that he’s going to be able to do that. 

 

_ “I want you to lead Voltron.”  _

 

The memory brings with it fresh sobs, so violent they make his chest hurt. 

 

But the black lion chose him and the team has no other options. All he can do is keep following Shiro’s lead, even in his absence. 

 

And it’s been one colossal fuck-up after the next. 

 

Keith sucks in a breath and holds it, trying to pull himself together. Even a meltdown like this is an indulgence he shouldn’t be taking. After the meal he was scheduled to rendezvous with the Blade soldier in quadrant nu-delta485 and Kolivan for any updates regarding Lotor’s fleet. 

 

And then he had planned to review some data the team acquired from the last battle to see if there might be any evidence pertaining to the Galran occupation of a nearby colony. 

 

And he hasn’t run any drills with the team in a few days; that’s unacceptable. Lance is adjusting remarkably well to the red lion, but he and Allura could both use more practice. And Hunk and Pidge need to be entirely comfortable with the new team dynamics. They are active duty soldiers, he’s leading them in a  _ war. _ They can’t afford to get sloppy. 

 

And----

 

_ What if Hunk leaves?  _

 

The thought makes Keith’s blood run cold. Hunk was _ so _ angry. Keith runs his thumb over his knuckles, clenched into a fist. He squeezes his eyes shut. It would be his fault. He just can’t fucking say the right things at the right time. He’s never been good at that. And if his stupidity made Hunk leave, Voltron would be over, all thanks to him. 

 

He’s just not cut out for this. 

 

*

 

Later, when his breathing has evened out, and a dull ache in the back of his head has replaced the tears, Keith climbs to his feet. A haze of exhaustion has settled over his body. Too tired to cry anymore. Feels numb. He decides that even though he probably missed the meeting with the Blades regarding Lotor, he can still review the data…

 

Keith places his hand over the pad to open the door. It whooshes open and---

 

Lance comes tumbling in, falling flat on his back.

 

“Ooof!!” he groans, rubbing the back of his head, where it smacked the floor. “‘m’awake, I’m awake---yup, totally not asleep,” 

 

He keeps muttering as he shuffles to his side, turning his body right side up with sluggish movements that indicate he  _ definitely _ was asleep.  “Keith? You okay?” Lance asks. The light from Red’s hanger is behind him. He squints up at Keith in the dark as he asks. 

 

“Hey man,” he starts again at Keith’s silence. 

 

“I’m fine.” Keith responds. His voice is tear-ruined, raspy and hoarse. 

 

“Dude,” Lance says at the sound of it. He’s on his feet now, standing awkwardly in the doorway, hesitating to come any closer. 

 

“Really.” Keith moves to push past him. “ _ Really _ not in the mood right now, Lance.” 

 

Lance lets him out, standing to the side. “Oh sorry I  _ forgot.  _ You’re only in the mood for blowing up at dinner and then storming out---” 

 

“Lan-nce!” Keith’s voice cracks in the middle of the name. He sets his jaw, so the rest of the words come out clipped: “I can’t. Right now.” He pulls his eyes up to Lance’s. He knows his face must be as much of a mess as he feels. Puffy, red eyes, tangled hair, mouth pulled down as tears threaten again. “Not now,” he repeats. 

 

“Look.” Lance’s voice has lost the sharp edge, the joking bite. He sounds almost as tired as Keith feels.“I know I’m not---we’re not, like, buddies. And right now you’d probably rather talk to just about anybody else. But, I dunno man,” Lance’s shoulders sag in a gesture of helplessness, “Maybe talk to me?” 

 

He’s heard Lance’s voice go this gentle before----while he was remembering his friends back home, that day in the library. Keith never imagined that Lance’s voice could ever take on that warm-hearted quality and still be directed at him. This is as much of a truce as he’ll probably ever get with Lance. 

 

He lifts a hand in between them, then drops it, not sure what he meant to do. He wets his lips. Shakes his head. “I don’t know what to say,” he confesses. 

 

“You could start with what got you so upset.” 

 

Keith winces. “I fucked up.” 

 

Lance raises one eyebrow in interest at the admission, but says nothing. 

 

Keith continues. “Hunk is really mad.” 

 

“Yeah, no, I got that.” Lance waves, dismissing the words. He begins walking towards the hanger’s door waiting for Keith to follow suit. “I mean like,  _ why _ are you so upset. I’m gonna be brutally honest, man. You look like shit.” 

 

“Hunk was really angry,” Keith repeats. It’s a little easier to talk like this---following Lance’s relaxed pace through the ship. He has his hands tucked into the waistband of his jeans, shoulders slouched, not watching while Keith works out the words. “He---I’ve never seen him like that, and---”

 

“Yeah, but--” 

 

“What if he leaves, Lance?” Keith stops in the middle of the hallway. They’re still on the lower decks near the hangers. No one else would be around, but Keith still lowers his voice. “What if he leaves, and it’s my fault?” 

 

Lance shifts on his feet. He has one hand in a fist, pressed to his lips in thought. He removes it, opens his mouth as if to speak, and then shuts it. 

 

Keith looks up at Lance through his messy bangs. He feels raw, but also somehow better, now that he’s said it outloud. 

 

“Okay first of all,” Lance starts, hand now raised in front of him, one elegant finger out, “if any of us were gonna peace out, we would’ve left a long time ago. So stop worrying about that. Second of all,” he presses the finger to his forehead, squints his eyes shut like he’s confused, and shakes his head, “ _ what. _ ” 

 

“What?” Keith repeats. 

 

“Yeah, he was mad, but you act like just because he got mad this _ one _ time, your friendship is over forever. Dude, that’s not how it works.” 

 

Keith frowns. 

 

Lance must realize that he’s still not convinced. He resumes walking, hands splayed out in front of him while he explains, Keith at his side. “It’s like when you argue with your siblings, right? You can scream and swear and say the most horrible things, but at the end of the day, you still got each other’s backs, right?” 

 

“I don’t.” Keith shifts, squaring his shoulders ever so slightly. Lance evidently doesn’t know that he doesn’t have any family with which to argue. “I don’t have any siblings.” 

 

“Your mom then.” Lance says, easily. “The day I moved into the Garrison, my ma and I really got into it. I said some awful shit to her, and as soon as she left campus, I felt terrible.”

 

“What did you do?” Keith asks, quiet. 

 

Lance shrugs. “Apologized. Called her before they even got to the airport. Cried a little because I already missed her.” Lance throws this out like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

 

“I guess I haven’t had much practice.” Keith says, tapping the pad to activate the elevator. He hasn’t had much experience with that kind of boundless, inexhaustible affection. Unconditional support, that he could never ruin, no matter what. It seems like a very precious thing. Almost unattainable. 

 

“Sure you have.” Lance disagrees goodnaturedly. “You have me.” He motions Keith into the elevator in front of him with a grand gesture. 

 

“Huh?” Keith watches the floors float pass as the elevator takes them to the deck with their rooms. “You’re not my mom?” 

 

“Brilliant as always, Keitharino.” Lance claps him on the back. “You’re really going places with these deduction skills, I--” 

 

“Shut up,”

 

Lance grins. “See? That’s what I mean.” 

 

“What?” Keith steps out of the elevator, waiting for Lance. Lance leads him in the opposite direction of his room, indicating that Keith should follow with a shrug of his shoulder. 

 

“We fight all. The. Damn. Time.” Lance spells it out for him. He draws out the next word, prompting Keith: “Buuuut?” 

 

“But...we don’t care?” 

 

Lance drags a hand down his face. “No. We’re still chill afterwards. Like, this morning you called me a,” he cocks his head, remembering, “ _ goop-faced blue idiot, _ but,” 

 

“Only because you stole the laser pointer thing away from me while I was trying to explain the mission!! And you showed up to the a.m. briefing in a robe and had goo on your face!!” 

 

Lance holds up a hand indicating he is in no way going to make a rebuttal. He continues on as if uninterrupted. “But did I forgive you? Yes. Yes I did.” 

 

Keith pinches the bridge of his nose. 

 

“And Hunk will forgive you too.” Lance stops. They’re outside of Hunk’s room. 

 

“Lance,” Keith says. Is now really the best time to do this? He hasn’t worked out what to say. He’s emotionally wrung out. He’s---

 

“Hunk!” Lance calls out, give Keith a reassuring look. He raps on the doorframe with his knuckles a couple of times. “I brought our fearless leader!!” 

 

The door slides open. Hunk looks exhausted, but he wasn’t asleep. His mouth is set in a firm line as he meets Keith’s eye. 

 

“Hunk.” Keith says. Not at all sure what to say. Lance nudges his shoulder against Keith’s which should be irritating, but. Isn’t. 

 

Keith takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I lost my temper, and. I know---I know you always put the team first. And you’re always---you’re just as committed to this mission as anybody else. I shouldn’t have implied that,” he sucks in a breath, “that the stakes weren’t as high for you, just because you’re not searching for your brother like Pidge. Or for Shiro, like me.”

 

Lance raises his brows like,  _ yikes.  _

 

Hunk crosses his arms. “Yeah. You shouldn’t have.” 

 

Keith flinches. 

 

“Definitely a dick thing to say, honestly. Like, really Keith? Of course I care about Pidge’s brother! And none of us are as close to Shiro as you, but he was still my friend!!” Hunk shakes his head. “But man, I know. You’ve been dealing with a lot since taking over as the Black Paladin. You’ve been suuper cranky lately, and I can’t blame you too much. Heck, I wouldn’t want that job!” 

 

Keith’s mouth works as he tries not to cry. He nods. 

 

“Alright, alright,” Lance cuts in. “This is getting a little too after-school-special for me. Just hug it out already so I can go to bed.” 

 

“Uh. I don’t know if---” 

 

Hunk scoops Keith up in his arms without another word. He gives him a solid squeeze which Keith feebly returns. 

 

“Okay I feel so much better now,” Hunk sighs, plunking Keith back down. 

 

Keith nods, he feels better too. 

 

Lance claps his hands. “And that's a wrap!! Big guy, good job not smooshing him. And Keith, good job not being an emotionally constipated asshat for once.” 

 

“And. Good feeling gone.” Keith huffs. But the corner of his mouth is pulled up, halfway to a smile. 

 

Hunk laughs. “As fun as this is though, I really do need to sleep. Allura asked me to go over some basic maintenance routines for Blue tomorrow morning, so I’ll be up bright and early. Or, y’know, bright and early according to the castle time, considering we’re in space and---” 

 

“Is there anything wrong with Blue?” Keith asks. 

 

“No, no, but it’s good for Allura to---” 

 

“Save the shop talk for the morning, guys,” Lance yawns. He pulls at Keith’s arm, tugging him in the direction of their rooms down the hall. 

 

“Goodnight Hunk,” Keith waves, while simultaneously swatting Lance’s hand away. 

 

“Night Keith!! ‘Night Lance!!” Hunk’s door slides shut. 

 

“See, now was that so hard?” Lance grins at him, standing outside Keith’s bedroom. 

 

Keith shakes his head. He really, truly does feel better. He’s grateful. Ever since Shiro disappeared, Lance has been supportive in more ways than just this. As difficult as it’s been, taking over as leader would be a lot worse if he didn’t have Lance at his side. 

 

“Thank you, Lance. For this.”  _ And everything.  _ He doesn’t know the right way to say it, but Keith tries, with a small smile. 

 

“Give the desert boy one (1) emotion and suddenly he’s the king of sap.” Lance quips.  

 

Keith laughs a little, under his breath. “Maybe we should hug it out too,” he jokes lightly. 

 

He doesn’t expect Lance to actually, well, do that. 

 

Lance’s arms around him are not like Hunk’s solid embrace, or the comfort that Shiro always provided. Lance is slim, skinnier than Keith. He feels slight in Keith’s arms---and it’s wrong, because how could someone with such a big personality as Lance be so small? Keith tightens his grip, suddenly very thankful for his constant presence. “Lance,” he starts, 

 

Lance responds with tightening his hold. He hugs Keith fiercely, like he’s holding on to Keith with everything he’s got. He has his head bowed, cheek pressing into Keith’s hair. 

 

“Thanks for letting me in,” he murmurs, close to Keith’s ear. 

 

Keith nods, his nose buried in the collar of Lance’s jacket. It smells warm and sweet and clean, like fresh laundry or expensive soap. He closes his eyes. 

 

He feels Lance’s chest rise as he inhales, taking a breath before he drops his arms and steps away from Keith. The color is high on his cheeks. The tips of his ears are red. He’s looking at a spot behind Keith, rather than at Keith’s face. “D-do me a favor and sleep tonight, okay?” 

 

“I sleep!” Keith protests. Not for the first time, Keith realizes how keenly observant Lance can be----he doesn’t know how Lance figured out that he was having trouble with insomnia too. But Keith’s heart feels lighter than it has in weeks. Hopefully tonight will be better. 

 

“And next time.” Lance scratches at the side of his face, “Next time you need to talk, I’m here, okay?” 

 

Keith nods. “Goodnight Lance.” 

 

Lance raises one hand up in a wave goodnight, walking backwards to his room, just the next door over. “See you in the morning, Keith.” 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lance helping keith out while shiro is gone is just (clenches fist) my favorite. If you liked this drabble, I actually did an entire fic like this, ‘i know your best was still your worst.’ read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067758) if you want!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (awkwardly clears throat) so. This is the second time I’m uploading a chapter 7 for this fic. As soon as I put up the previous version, I really felt like it didnt fit with the tone of this series or the overall story I’m trying to get at, so I really regretted it. That oneshot was scrapped and we are moving on. If you happened to read it: (lifts arms in helpless gesture) uhhh?? Idk ? 
> 
> thank you for being patient with me while I recover from that blunder lol. So now we continue onwards...hopefully the fic progresses in a way that is entertaining nonetheless. And always always, thank you for reading!

***

 

_The black lion, outer edge of the Zentradi System, SDF-1’982 Galaxy._

 

As soon as Keith is in range, his communication systems are lighting up----the messages begin coming in like a wildfire raging through dry tinder.

 

“Hunk! Hunk! I need cover!!”

 

“A little help! Guys!”

 

“Pidge! Yes! Okay, got em,”

 

The scream of enemy guns.

 

“Your six, watch it---shit!”

 

Static. Dead air. The silence is so much worse than the panicking voices of his teammates.

 

“----so---f---ch---”

 

Keith pushes the throttle forward in frustration. _C’mon, c’mon--_ -

 

“The blue lion has not yet gotten into position--I’m trying, but---oh for goodness sakes, will you get _out_ of the _way_ \---”

 

“Damn, Allura! Nice!!!”

 

“Thank you, Lance, but I’m afraid sheer force of will only takes one so far. I’m sorely outnumbered here!”

 

Keith isn’t close enough to have a visual yet, but the situation sounds bleak. He offers, for what it’s worth:  “Guys, I’m on my way, keep it up!” He adjusts his headings, eases up on Black’s screaming thrusters. She’s a powerhouse, but right now he’d give anything for Red’s speed.

 

“Keith!” Shiro’s voice sounds relieved, but strained. His tone doesn’t offer much assurance. “The castle’s shields are holding, but we’re taking heavy fire. What’s your ETA?”

 

“Five, no, four doboshes,” Keith replies, steady hands flying over his dash. “Visuals coming into range---now,”

 

“Make it three, mullet, we’re getting our asses handed to us out here, and we don’t have time for your ‘fashionably late’ bullshit!”

 

Keith bites his tongue. The four lions of Voltron are caught in an all out dog-fight. It’s very nearly worst case scenario: three battleship class Galran warships, a whole host of smaller vessels, and the entire sector swarming with drones and individually piloted fighters.

 

He arrives just in time to see the yellow lion take a direct hit from one of the warrior class cruisers. They’re small, comparatively, but they pack a punch. The yellow lion is sent reeling from the force of the hit, tumbling into a horde of drones.

 

“Hunk!!” Keith lays down fire, sending the surviving drones packing. “Damage report!”

 

“Keith! Buddy, am I glad to see you!” The yellow lion rights itself, makes as if to fly valiantly back into the the thick of the combat. “I’m okay, but, man,  would I love to be a leg right about now.”

 

“We need to form Voltron like, yesterday!” Pidge agrees.

 

“I know. Guys, I’m sorry I’m late--” Keith starts, summoning his jaw blade. He sends the black lion diving into the fight, slicing open the belly of one huge ship. Lance covers him in the red lion as he comes out of the dive, and the ship explodes into a chaotic mess of escape pods and spiraling debris.

 

“Less apologizing, more Voltron-ing!!” Lance trills.

 

“The castle’s weapons are engaged to assist,” Coran reports. “Er--best make it quick though,”

 

“On my position,” Keith commands, clearing his mind of everything except that singular determination. The bond with his co-pilots floods his senses: Hunk’s cautious optimism, Pidge’s mental dexterity, Lance’s eagerness, Allura’s graceful strength. Keith breathes in deep that feeling of being present, in _this_ moment, for _this_ goal. It’s powerful. It’s calming, despite everything, despite the rage of war surrounding them.

 

“Team! Form Vol---”

 

Like a hand closing around his throat, like his legs being swept out from under him, that feeling of calmness is wrenched away.

 

“I’m hit!!” Pidge confirms what the other four have already felt. She’s gasping. “Green is---engines A, B, C, and E down. Navigation just went down. Autonetics, life support---all systems f-failing!!

 

“Pidge!!” Keith tries---

 

“I got her!!” Lance is already there in Red, “I’m not gonna be able to haul her back alone---Hunk!!”

 

“On it!” The yellow lion is at their side. “We’re headed back to the castle, cover us!!”

 

“Coran!” Allura’s voice is much more balanced than Keith feels. “Leave the bridge to Shiro. I need you to ready a healing pod at once!”

 

“Retreat!” Keith gives the belated order. They don’t need for him to say what is already being done. He says it anyways.

 

He’s the last one inside, only slipping within the confines of the Castleship’s hanger as the wormhole begins to shimmer at the edges of his screens.

 

Once inside, he chokes in one breath, two. He goes to remove his helmet---anything to breathe easier---but rather than the paladin armor, he’s still outfited in his Marmora suit from the mission he underwent earlier in the day.

 

He drops out of Black’s cockpit before the entry dock is fully lowered, and takes off at a sprint towards the medbay.

 

“Is she---Pidge---” Keith gasps over regular beep of the monitors and the pleasant whirr of the healing pod sealing.

 

“It was close,” Lance tells him, tone hard. He has his helmet tucked under one arm; there’s blood on the visor. Keith scans his face---mouth set in a line, normally animated brows downturned, hair matted with sweat, but not blood---Lance is unharmed. The blood’s not his.

 

“Number five will be right as rain after a little cryosleep and a few ticks with the autoregen tech.” Coran hums, making minute adjustments to the pod’s settings.

 

“Thank god,” Keith says, feeling his legs go weak with relief.

 

“No.” Lance turns to him. “Thank me. Thank _Hunk_ for getting her back here as fast as he did. Thank _Allura_ for having the foresight to prep the pods before we engaged. Thank _Shiro_ for getting the Castle as close to the battle as feasibly possible. Hell, you can even thank the Galra pilot for his shitty aim. The only one we can’t really _thank_ ,” he has his pointer finger between them, and he places just the tip delicately on Keith’s breastplate, “is you.”

 

“Lance,” Keith starts, anger and shame coloring his vision red and his voice harsh, “You---”

 

“Keith.” Shiro’s image pops up on a screen; he’s hailing from the bridge. “Before we debrief and regroup, Kolivan is requesting an update regarding your mission this morning.”

 

Lance regards him for a moment. He raises his brows in challenge, but doesn’t say anything. His silence is condemnation enough.

 

“I’ll be there shortly, Shiro.” Keith responds.

 

He leaves the medbay.

 

*

This can’t happen again.

 

Keith is back in the medbay; it’s hours later and the rest of the crew is elsewhere. Keith suspects they are as restless as he is, but he offered to be the one to stay at Pidge’s side, and no one argued. He has a datapad in hand. He’s meant to be finishing a report for the Blade but he can’t bring himself to concentrate.

 

This can’t happen again.

 

Pidge looks so tiny in the healing pod. Her glasses---Keith doesn’t know where they are; he would do anything to get them back to her---she doesn’t have on her glasses and her face looks wrong without them. Her nose is a little too long and her cheeks a little less round and, and---

 

This is his fault. He puts the datapad aside and gets up. Pacing the floor is probably a weird thing to do---Lance would no doubt tease him if he could stand the sight of him---but despite being exhausted, everything in Keith is thrumming with energy and the movement helps him think.

 

Trying to divide his time between the Blade and Voltron is not working. That’s obvious.

 

The mantle of the black paladin, the leader of Voltron….he’s ill suited for it. That’s just as obvious.

 

He winces. Shiro doesn’t think so.

 

But, Keith clenches his fists, Shiro has always had more faith in him than was logical. Maybe this is just the point at which it becomes so glaringly obvious that Keith will have to finally correct him. Maybe it’s finally---

 

A shrill chime from the monitors interrupts his thoughts.

 

Pidge is stable. The pod door decompresses with a hiss and her body, still limp from sleep, sags out.

 

“Here,” Keith rasps--his voice is hoarse. He clears his throat, tucks Pidge into his side, “Here, I got you,”

 

Pidge accepts the arm around her waist as Keith walks her over to the nearest gurney. He helps her up and then grabs a blanket. He arranges it around her shoulders, but feels like he’s clumsy with it, like maybe it should be a different way. He fusses with it around her legs, not meeting her eye just yet.

 

“What time is it?” She asks him, hand raised to her face, pushing up the glasses that aren’t there. She realizes and her hands drop under the blanket, pulling it closer around her shoulders.

 

Keith tells her.

 

“Huh. Just five varga in the pod?” Pidge considers this. “Must not have been that severe.”

 

Keith tenses. That’s not right.

 

Pidge is just a kid. She’s allowed to be freaked out that her ship was damn near totalled with her inside. She sustained fractured ribs, a concussion, substantial internal bleeding. She’s allowed to be upset. In pain. Not able to deal.

 

Not that severe? The hell it wasn’t.

 

She shouldn’t have to be strong, act like nothing’s wrong. Not for him. Not _because_ of him.

 

“Pidge…” Keith looks her in the face.

 

(She just seems so _small_ without her glasses. With the blanket pulled around her. Feet dangling so far from the floor).

 

“...I’m sorry.”

 

Pidge scoffs at him. “For what?”

 

Keith doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s okay if you’re upset…” he starts.

 

“Keith.” Pidge is very matter of fact. “Being upset is not an option. If I let myself fall apart, there is a very high possibility I won’t be able to pull myself back together again.” She matter of fact when she says it, but as she looks down at him from the table, her mouth wobbles a little.

 

Keith studies his arms crossed over his chest, not sure how to respond.

 

“Ugh!!” Pidge scrubs her face with her hands. “My brain’s all foggy from the pod and I’m not good at this touchy feely stuff anyways!! Just say what you want to say!”

 

“You were injured and it was my fault and I feel terrible!” Keith says in a rush, uncrossing his arms.  

 

“Okay now that I can work with,” Pidge says.  

 

Keith huffs out a laugh, but soon sombers. “I was late. Dividing my time between the Blade missions and Voltron isn’t working, and our loss today proves that. You got injured. If the black lion had been there from the beginning, things would never have escalated the way they did.”

 

Pidge tilts her head. “Well, maybe. We can’t know that for sure.” She cuts through his words with razor sharp precision. “Are you thinking about stopping your missions with the Blade, then?”

 

Keith shakes his head, but before he can respond, Lance comes bounding through the door of the medbay. The thing barely slides open enough for him to fit through before he’s rushing inside. With a cry, he scoops Pidge up off the table and spins her around in his arms.

 

Pidge squawks, protesting loudly as he plops her down and begins smacking wet, loud kisses over forehead and the top of her head.

 

“Lance!!” Pidge swats him away, absolutely pink from laughing. “Stop slobbering all over me, you noodle-limbed freak!!”

 

“He’s like a dog,” Hunk observes, giggling a little. He gives Pidge a squeeze too.

 

“Dogs have way fewer germs than Lance, I’m sure,” Pidge grumbles.

 

“Pidgey, I’m crushed,” Lance says, melodramatic as usual. He produces her glasses with a flourish. “Your life flashed before my eyes, and here I am, trying to _cherish_ you,”

 

Pidge plucks the glasses out of his pinched fingers and slides them back onto her face. She blinks, eyes once more behind her trusty lenses. “My life huh? How was it?”

 

“Terrible,” Lance flops over. “Full of science and five syllable words. Ugh.”

 

Hunk laughs, full and booming. “We’re really glad you’re okay.”

 

Keith takes the opportunity to duck out of the room, unnoticed.  

 

*

 

He falls into bed. Overwhelmed with pent up worry, the missions leaving his body sore, the aftermath of adrenaline making him sluggish, the relief at seeing Pidge okay----all of it coalesces into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

In the morning, Keith takes a longer shower than usual. He turns the Altean taps to as hot as they will go, and stands under the water for a long time after the suds are gone. He breathes in the steam and makes his decision.

 

He dresses in blue-black and purple-gray. The marmoran suit fits exactly as it should. He hangs his red jacket by the door, checks that his bed is Garrison-regulation-smooth, and exits his room.

 

Shiro isn’t on the training deck where the two of them typically meet for a morning workout. It’s odd for him to be running late, but then again. He hasn’t been quite the same since he was taken the second time.

 

(Keith doesn’t like to dwell on it. Recovering the pod. Shiro limp in Allura’s arms as she lifted him from cramped cockpit. The mats in his hair. The sallowness of his skin. The way his eyes passed over Keith at first, blank with a lack of recognition.)

 

(He’s back now, and doesn’t deserve what Keith is about to impose on him. Keith can’t help but dwell on that. But he’s convinced he’s making the right decision.)

 

“Shiro,” Keith taps at the door to his room. It opens to the dark. “Shiro...can I come in?”

 

Shiro’s sitting in bed. He has a compress pressed over one eye. “Keith. Sure. But, do me a favor and leave the lights off for now, will you?”

 

“Mm.” Keith enters the room and slides the door shut behind him, blocking out the offending blue light from the hallway. “Headache?”

 

“Just like old times, huh?” Shiro’s familiar dry laugh takes Keith back to the Garrison.

 

Shiro used to get migraines periodically back on Earth. He managed them well---that is to say, he didn’t talk about them with Keith, like the rest of his health issues---but Keith eventually found out. He came into Shiro’s quarters one day to find Shiro passed out over the couch, a compress over his eyes just like this. Adam had shushed Keith, told him to stay quiet, and Shiro had laughed that same dry chuckle---Keith is hardly a loud person.

 

“What can I do to help?” Keith asks, sinking down to one side of Shiro’s bed.

 

“Get me a new body,” Shiro suggests. “One with a brain that doesn’t periodically do its best to self destruct.”

 

Keith makes a noise of disapproval. “No, really.”

 

Shiro shrugs. He tosses Keith a sheepish smile. “Nothing then.”

 

On Earth, Shiro had medicine that he used to take for the migraines, but he almost never relied on it---one of the side effects made his heart race. Keith didn’t understand how a bounding heart rate could be worse than the pain, but maybe he’s starting to get it.

His own heart clenching tight in his chest, Keith begins. “Shiro, I need to talk to you.”

 

Removing the compress from his eyes, Shiro blinks. “Of course. What is it?”

 

There’s no reason to skirt the issue. Keith’s heart might be racing, but his eyes are steady when they meet Shiro’s. “I’m going to work with the Blade full time. You’re the rightful black paladin.”

 

“Keith. We’ve spoken about this before.”

 

There’s only been a few times when the two of them have disagreed over anything. Never anything of this magnitude, of course. But the worst thing about arguing with Shiro is how maddenly calm he is. Keith resists the urge to stand up and shout his position, to force Shiro---but that’s never been the way between them. Shiro just gives and gives---all gentle understanding and perfect, terrible restraint---and what can Keith do in the face of such unmitigated composure except for eventually agree?

 

But this time he has to break that cycle. “I know you disagree. But this is what’s best for the team. I’ve made my decision.”

 

“Mind explaining why?” Shiro says it carefully. The caution in his tone strikes Keith worse than anything.

 

Social workers are cautious with a grieving child. Teachers are cautious with an ill-behaved student. Peers are cautious when they see that Keith doesn’t fit in, when they assume that he’s angry first and a person second.

 

Shiro has never been cautious with him. Not like this, not ‘til now.

 

Keith hates it.

 

“Splitting my time between the two groups is bad for both. Yesterday’s battle could have gone completely differently, if you would have been piloting the black lion from the beginning. And I’m useful as an agent of the Blade.”

 

There’s more he could say. That the pilot’s seat in Black still feels wrong every time he sits down. That he second guesses every order. That he simply can’t maintain an impartial view of the situation when the lives of the four people he cares about so deeply are in danger.

 

“Have you told the others?”

 

Keith shakes his head. “I wanted you to be the first.”

 

Shiro slides out of bed, offers Keith a hand up. “I want you to know, that no matter what happens, you still have a place on this team.”

 

Keith nods.

 

He wants to say, _I’m sorry for falling short. I’m sorry for putting this on you. I’m sorry I can’t be the leader you think I am. I’m sorry for disagreeing. I’m sorry if your faith in me was displaced._

 

_I’m sorry for leaving._

 

*

 

He tells the team.

 

Coran is ambivalent, but Keith thinks that he most likely saw this coming.

 

Allura is----Allura’s always been difficult for Keith to understand. He thinks she’s probably disappointed.

 

Hunk is tearful.

 

Pidge puts on a brave face but hugs him fiercely around the middle.

 

Lance is still angry with him.

 

No one argues.

 

*

 

Late that night, after the goodbyes have been said and all of the preparations are complete,  Keith is just killing time until he can rendezvous with the Blade agent. He suspects that any of the others would be willing to wait with him, but there’s a kind of quiet peace in wandering the Castle alone, now that he’s made the decision to leave. Foster homes and Garrison barracks and desert cabins and Castle rooms---this might be the first time he’s decided for himself where he’s going next. It’s a kind of melancholy revelation, but even so.

 

Tall ceilings, large swathes of stars outside curved windows, the quiet, warm library, the messy lounge, the training deck...his home. He already misses it.

 

He pads down the hallway and is only a little bit surprised to find the lights are on in the kitchen. Maybe the mice are sneaking a midnight snack? Or Hunk is stress baking? Or Pidge fell asleep at the table again?

 

When he gets closer, however, the murmuring is distinctly Lance.

 

“...doooon’t think it’s supposed to be that color. Or maybe it is? What color was it originally? Can’t remember...purple maybe? Pink? Not….”

 

Lance is standing in front of the fridge, an alien tupperware held gingerly up to his face as he peeks inside. He gives it an experimental sniff and recoils. “Okay, that’s a no...definitely---”

 

“I think Coran’s rule is: as long as it hasn’t spawned new life, it’s fair game,” Keith offers.

 

“Keith!” Lance jumps, startled. A blue glob of whatever’s inside the tupperware sloshes out. “Shit dude, we need to put a bell on you or something, nearly gave me a heart attack---”

 

Keith makes an apologetic gesture, still hovering in the doorway. Lance had hugged him goodbye along with everyone else, but they haven’t really spoken since he blew up at Keith in the medbay.

 

“I thought you already left,” Lance tells him.

 

Keith takes this as an offering of peace, or at least an invitation to talk. He joins Lance in the kitchen, easily leveraging himself up to sit on the kitchen counter.

 

“Not quite.” With nothing else to say, he explains the schedule the Blade agent is following. The timing of the ship connection has to do with the closest base being in orbit around a moon and the rotation of the planet. It’s unnecessary details, but Lance listens, bobbing his head in acknowledgement as he continues to rummage through the fridge.

 

“Found it!”

 

Keith tilts his head. “Found what?”

 

Lance brandishes a jar above his head like its a trophy. “The not-peanut butter-butter!” He cackles. “Pidge thinks she’s so smart, hiding it in the back. You think I don’t know all the tricks, eh Pidgey? Ha! You have a lot to learn!”

 

Keith raises his eyebrows as Lance grabs a loaf of what passes for bread and begins his searching through the fridge with renewed vigor.

 

It doesn’t take him nearly as long to find the jam.  

 

And soon enough, he’s handing Keith a sandwich.

 

“Oh no, uh--I’m good,” Keith says, arms pulled back in surprise a bit. “I couldn’t---”

 

“Jeez, man, just take the sandwich.” Lance shakes it in his face. “It’s not a five course meal at the Ritz. You always take everything so seriously!!”

 

“I do not!” Keith takes the proffered PB&J (alien version) as proof that he does not, in fact, take everything too seriously.

 

“Yeah, right,” Lance scoffs, waving the knife around as punctuation. He starts making another sandwich for himself, “Like that one time on Calpamos you followed me down into the basement and almost jumped that poor alien girl.”

 

Keith bristles, “She could have been dangerous!”

 

“I was asking her where the bathroom was!!!”

 

Keith scowls and takes an angry bite out of his sandwich. Lance cut it into two triangles for him which leaves Keith feeling inexplicably fond. He doesn’t want to fight.  

 

Then he notices that Lance is chewing through his bite with a half smirk on his face. He hasn’t put any malice behind his words. He almost looks like...he’s enjoying himself.

 

Keith has the realization that Lance is just teasing and not actually fighting. “You’re not...actually serious…”

 

“Dude, no. I’m joking. We’re having a conversation. It’s where two sentient beings exchange words. You should try it sometimes.”

 

Keith can only think of all the times Lance was an asshole...Even earlier in the medbay when Lance seemed so disgusted. He doesn’t seem mad anymore. “I thought---uh. You don’t hate me?”

 

Lance looks completely off kilter. He sets his sandwich down with a frown. “No?” He rubs the back of his neck. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

 

“Oh.” Keith has finished off his sandwich, leaving his hands empty. He looks down into his lap where his hands are folded, not quite sure if that’s the best place for them.

 

“In fact,” Lance clears his throat. “It’s just the opposite...y’know. Of hate.”

 

Keith blinks, looking at Lance. He’s leaned against the counter, next to Keith. His arms are crossed, chin tucked close to his chest as he stares at his feet. He’s not wearing shoes, just socks.

 

His ears are red. From this angle Keith can see the flush extends to the nape of his neck, down past the loose collar of the baseball tee he always wears.

 

“Uh.” Keith says. “I didn’t know that.”

 

Lance coughs, choking on thin air. “You didn’t know that---okay,” he waves his hands at the hydration pack Keith is offering him, “No, I’m good, thanks though.”

 

Keith feels like he should probably say something else, but nothing comes to mind.

 

Lance seems to regain his breath after a minute. “So,” he says pausing, like the question is weighted. “What do you think…?”

 

“About what?” Keith asks, not following. “You not hating me?” He shrugs. “I mean, I’m leaving so I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference, does it?”

 

He means it as a joke, something for Lance to scoff at and act all theatrical and offended...but that doesn’t happen.

 

Instead Lance’s shoulders get tight. Lance swallows. He nods, “No worries,” he says, tone light.

 

The playful mood is gone and replaced with something much more severe. “Lance?” Keith blinks. He didn’t mean to offend him. “Me leaving Voltron is for the best,” he says, not sure exactly who he’s trying to convince.

 

Lance’s jaw clenches and he looks at the ceiling for a moment before his eyes finally sink to Keith’s face. “Listen. Will you---can you---just.” He draws in a breath. “Just be careful while you’re away, okay?”

 

His hands, always moving while he talks, still. One of them finds Keith’s. He takes Keith’s hand, presses it with his own. His hands are warm, bigger than Keith’s, but right now there’s an unmistakable tremor. His fingertips tremble against Keith’s wrist.

 

Keith turns his hand over, squeezes in response. “I’ll do what I can.”

 

The smile Lance gives him is paper thin. “Okay,” he repeats, dropping Keith’s hand. “Okay.”

 

It’s getting late castletime. Keith wonders if Lance won’t go to bed soon, but he never mentions it. Instead Lance pops himself up on the counter next to him, and they chat, for awhile, until it’s time for Keith to go.

 

***


	8. Chapter 8

***

 

_Communications port, Blade of Marmora operative epsilon-sub215 , [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], Xzela Galaxy._

 

A line of code types itself onto the screen, followed by several others, moving down the screen faster than it’s possible to read them. Then appears the message:

 

//encryption determined secure. begin data transfer?

 y

>n

 

Keith toggles to the ‘y.’ The window of time he has to accomplish this task is very narrow, but living mission-to-mission with the Blade has reduced his movements to only the most essential. There’s no impatient tapping of foot, no fidgeting over the keys, no tugging at the wrists of his gloves (the only ill-fitting piece of his marmoran suit). He stands stock still, concentrating, listening.

 

A distant rumble---reverb throughout the ship as the starboard hull is breached and decompresses. Ah,

 

That’d be the second wave of explosives he planted. So he has seventy-five ticks until the third wave detonates and they officially realize that their faulty crystal line is not actually faulty, but instead under attack. And roughly ten ticks after that before every inch of every deck on this vessel is swarming with soldiers ordered to shoot him on sight.

 

//data transfer complete. remove device.  

 

Keith obeys, collecting the data chip from the port and tucking it into his belt in one smooth movement. He doesn’t have time for the meandering, curved incline that some of the older Galran ships have in the design of their comm deck. Instead of walking down, he hikes one leg up over the side and jumps, dropping several floors. The impact of landing gives him just enough momentum to slide into the shadows before the drones in this hall complete their routine sweep.

 

(Would he be able to pull off a jump like that if he were planetside? It always seems like artificial gravity is just a little bit kinder than the real thing. He’d like to ask Pidge, but.)

 

He begins his trek through the convoluted halls of the lower decks. There’s no hesitancy in his pace, but he resists the urge to run; he doesn’t want his boots to clip against the floor and he can’t afford to get sloppy and make a wrong turn.

 

A roar, followed by distant shouting.

 

And there’s the third wave: right under the backstay. Keith smirks. The preliminary alarms sound. Luckily he’s just one hall down from his ship---

 

Keith turns the corner and almost runs directly into a Galran.

 

His eyes, golden and sheeny in the low light, narrow at Keith’s appearance. “You’re not---”

 

The rest of his words are knocked out of him in a huff as Keith spins and connects the flat of his blade with the center of the alien’s chest. He staggers, fumbling for his weapon, but Keith’s elbow slams down _just so_ at the juncture of his neck and shoulder---without another word, he’s out.

 

He’s not an officer---probably a low ranking soldier, or maybe even a basic crewhand. But he’s got a pin on his jacket that catches Keith’s eye. Keith’s crunched for time, yeah, but he still takes the tick to unfasten it and slip it inside his pocket.

 

(It reminds Keith of the badge that the characters wore in that ancient tv show, the one with Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk. Hunk loves that kind of thing; Keith has a feeling he’d get a kick out of this souvenir. It’ll be great to show it to him, if---)

 

The shipwide alarms blare, bathing even these maintenance corridors in flashing red light. That’s his cue. Keith curls his fingers in a cheeky wave to the unconscious Galran, and ducks down, past the waste incinerator to his getaway vehicle.

 

She’s a pretty little thing: sleek and fast (not as fast as Red, but) and equipped with the most cutting edge cloaking tech to which the Blade has access. Keith loves flying her. Her systems finish booting just as the first guard enters the room,

 

_Three, two, one….._

 

The compactor jerks to life, following its regular schedule, and with it, the first set of entry doors unfold as the ship prepares to dump the waste particulate.

 

“Hold onto your hats, boys,” Keith recommends to the firing line that’s pouring into the room. He blasts through the much weaker outer doors of the hold. The vacuum of space beckons, and his ship slips out, faster than any shot from the guards could ever reach him.

 

He circles the now panicking vessel---a victory lap, of sorts---enjoying his handiwork before he climbs, higher and higher into space.

 

*

 

He’s almost back to his current base when a message pings in: “Agent, report mission status.”

 

Keith opens the line, “Mission completed successfully.” _Without a single hitch_ , he wants to add. He can’t help but feel smug; this is the fifth solo mission to which he’s been assigned and he’s yet to fuck anything up. If anything, he’s swiftly moving to the top of the Blade’s most skilled agents. And, considering the organization’s intolerance for failure, that’s really saying something.

 

The response is flat. “Response recorded. Send coordinates and predicted time of return.”

 

“Copy that,” Keith returns, mood significantly dampened. The line goes dead.

 

He can’t help it. Even though he’s been with the Blade for months now, something in him still anticipates the whoop of excitement following a victory.

 

(The response he’s imagining sounds suspiciously like Lance. It sounds like _we are a good team_ and _sharp work, samurai_ and _shit Keith, just when I thought I’d seen it all_ and a million other things that Lance has said to him that somehow, unintentionally, he’s cataloged away in excruciating detail. The little pleased hiss that precedes a gasp of surprise, the way Lance’s mouth quirks up on one side before he says something snide, the glint in his eyes that accompanies a jab. Especially at a time like this, the absence of all these little details, of _Lance,_ is something that Keith feels sorely.)

 

He returns to the base.

 

The initial report submitted, Keith makes his way back to his bunk. Though he’s been stationed on this particular ship longer than any others, it’s not exactly home-y. He takes the badge he nicked off the Galran crewmember and places it on a slight ridge in the wall near his bed that he uses as a shelf. There’s a couple other souvenirs there---a deep blue stone, a _something_ that seems so suspiciously like a pop-tab from a soda can he has no idea what else it would be, a drawing he did of the red lion on a piece of scrap paper, a ribbon that was tied around his wrist during a celebration after a victory with Voltron. His comm is also there.

 

On a whim, he powers it on and searches for the Castle. Of course, nothing comes up---they’re not likely to be in this _galaxy,_ much less in this system.

 

He turns off his comm. Places it back among the other treasures. He falls back into bed, staring blankly at the dark blue ceiling.

 

He misses them.

 

Living with the Blade...is not the same.

 

Cohabitation does not beget closeness. Keith learned this lesson a long time ago:

 

As a child, his first roommates were three other boys---Gavin, another whose name began with an M, and another whose name is completely erased from his mind---and they disapproved of Keith on sight. He had just entered the foster system, even though he was nearly eight: one strike. He was an extra person in their already cramped room: another strike. He did not bend to the established group hierarchy: the third and final strike. He lived in that particular home for nine months and the room never felt anything less than hostile.

 

The lesson was further reinforced during his time at the Garrison. Though he lived and ate and had class with a finite number of people, he never earned closeness from any of them. He stayed only in Shiro’s orbit, content to be there, and never questioned why he might not have friends in his own barracks.

 

During his time aboard the castleship, however, the lesson was retaught. Keith was used to sharing a living space; what he _wasn’t_ accustomed to was sharing a living space with people who actively cared about him. Practice drills, sharing meals, training, the mutual experience of encountering alien culture---they did it loud, they did it messy, they did it _together_. Keith got used to being interrupted, to being joked with, to having affection thrust upon him, to being part of a team that was more like a family.

 

Cohabitation does not beget closeness. Keith learned this lesson a long time ago. He reminds himself after he interacts with the stoic, less-than-friendly Blade soldiers and feels an ache in his chest that reminds him of what he’s missing.   

 

To the Blades, his joining was a liability. Their organization has been around for so long because they are, above all else, cautious. Every scenario is outlined. Every risk is mitigated. Keith is a high risk, high reward, trust your gut, fight your way out kind of guy---and that is, very simply, unacceptable here.

 

And unlike Gavin and the kid whose name starts with an ‘M’ and the other nameless kid, he must respect their rules. So he changes. He squashes down the fire in his gut, the snippy mouth, the scrappy fighting---he changes. He does things according to protocol. He writes post-mission reports. He trains. He succeeds. He becomes an asset, not a liability.

 

The Blade is an important weapon in this war. This is where he’s useful. He’s doing good here.

 

Keith sits up in bed as the door to his room opens.

 

“Schedule and details regarding your next assignment,” the messenger relates, indicating a datapad. She’s new to this ship, but she’s working directly under Kolivan, so she’s someone with whom Keith will spend a fair amount of time. Galran ages are hard to pin down, but she also seems to be younger than Kolivan, maybe closer to Keith’s age?

 

“Thank you,” he gets up from his bunk, retrieving the pad. “It’s...Lav, right?”

 

She tilts her head, but whether it’s due to surprise or an answer, Keith wouldn’t be able to say.

 

“Laav,” she tells him, correcting his pronunciation.

 

“Got it. I’m…”

 

She already has begun walking away from his room.

 

“....Keith. Right. You don’t...need to know that.” Keith runs a hand through his hair. What is he doing? He must be tired.

 

He slumps back in the bed. After a moment, he rolls to one side to fish through his bedside cabinet for a packet of rations. He props up a pillow behind his back and nestles down, shoving what passes for food into his mouth with one hand and scrolling through the pad with the other. Judging by the length of the pre-brief alone, this must be one helluva mission. He starts reading...

 

His hand pauses halfway to his mouth, rations forgotten.

 

He sits up a little straighter, bringing the datapad close to his face.

 

The next mission. Codename: Naxela.

 

It’s a direct collaboration with Voltron.

 

*

 

Since joining the Blade full time, his contact with his old team has been limited, mostly written exchange of intel and the odd video conference or two.

 

He spent the entirety of the first conference call only half listening----the other half was wondering if something was on his face because why else would Lance be staring at him with such ferocity? The call took place just a week after Keith left, so Lance couldn’t have possibly been all that surprised to see him. He mouthed ‘what’ in an attempt to understand, and Lance shook his head so wildly that Coran asked him if he was experiencing a case of the Pegulian fuddleduds….

 

At which point Keith had snickered and Shiro had done the eyebrow raising thing (which means he thought it was hilarious but didn’t want to laugh) and Hunk had giggled and Pidge pinched the bridge of her nose and Allura had looked pained…

...and the meeting was officially derailed.

 

Kolivan was...less than pleased.

 

The following call---about 6 weeks later---was much more somber. The Blades had important details to pass on after emancipating an entire system of Galra influence, but. The win had come at great cost. Morav, the agent on the ground leading the initiative, had been killed. There were several other casualties and even more injured.

 

Shiro had stood tall in the room, addressing the Blade and Voltron alike: “We won’t let the sacrifice of those brave fighters be for nothing. The coalition will strengthen from these wounds even as they heal, and we will move forward together.”

 

Keith had taken comfort in those words. He had taken comfort in seeing Voltron, his team---a tangible reminder that, even though they were apart, they were still working towards the same end. If the coalition is progressing, if the team is able to succeed, then he must have made the right decision in leaving.

 

But.

 

Over time, the calls became less and less frequent. A short check-in here. Free time not aligning, having to reschedule. Another meeting, but with only Allura in attendance on the Voltron side. Another one cut short due to a possible emergency extraction needed from a fellow Blade agent. Before long, he’s all but estranged from his former team.

 

(He’s learned this lesson too: _“Oh Keith? You’re moving? Different home? New school? Don’t worry! We’ll always be friends!”_ )

 

(Guess they forgot to write. Yeah.)

 

No one even tells him that Pidge has finally found her brother. Keith found out secondhand, reading a report--- _Matt Holt will provide accessory details regarding_ \---his eyes swam at the words. All of a sudden he’s gulping back tears, between missions in his cruiser, holding the datapad like it’s his last lifeline. She found him. His heart clenches in his chest at the thought of Pidge reunited with her family---

 

The swell of emotion threatened to overwhelm him---how happy he is for her, how much he wishes he could have been there with them, the yearning to know more about his own family.

 

Breathing deep, clutching the sides of the tablet, eyes squeezed shut---he stayed like that until he could resume reading. _Matt Holt will provide accessory details regarding rebel initiative located in..._

 

That news was brought to him some time ago. In fact, it’s been almost three months since Keith has seen any of them at all, even via a screen.

 

This mission, Naxela, that he’s about to undertake---Keith can’t resist the small bubble of excitement that expands in his chest. He’s going to see them again. They’ll fight side-by-side. This will be a huge win against the Empire. And they’ll do it together.

 

*

 

It’s almost too easy, the way the mission unfolds.

 

“Who could use support?” Keith asks Coran, now that his own role has been successfully completed. Kolivan is at his side; he can handle things here. Keith is itching to get back into the fight, where he’s needed.

 

“Mmm,” Coran falters. “No one? No one has sent out any cries for help, as far as I can tell.”

 

Yeah. That’s...too easy.

 

Blade or not, Keith is still a trust-your-gut kind of guy. And this isn’t right.

 

“Shiro?” Keith tries his comm, certain to receive a response for the first time in a long while.

 

But none comes.

 

That’s. Not right.

 

“Shiro? Do you copy?” No answer. “Coran. Can you give me the current status on Voltron?”

 

Keith is in his ship without another thought. (He’s always felt better with his feet off the ground.)

 

The word comes, awful but somehow, _somehow_ , expected...this could be their undoing.

 

Zarkon’s witch. Naxela, a bomb. A detonation unfathomable.

 

This could be the end of Voltron.

 

“Matt.” Keith’s hands are wrapped tightly around the throttles, eyes ahead. He calls Matt---he remembers him from the Garrison, his goofy smile, nasally laugh, he teased Keith, ‘ _Shiro’s little shadow_ ’---

 

“Matt. Something’s wrong. I can’t get in contact with Voltron.”

 

“Should we fly to Naxela and check on them?”

 

“No. Lock onto my coordinates. It has something to do with this fleet. They’ve stopped. It’s weird. I’m gonna take it out, but I could use your help.”

 

Keith adjusts his headings, copies the direction to the rebel forces now at his back. He remembers the distressed voices of his team when last he flew the black lion. He won’t be late this time.

 

When Voltron does respond, he only finds that his hunch was correct. “I’m way ahead of you, Shiro.” He has to take out the shields on the battle cruiser. Failure is not an option.

 

His ship is fast (not as fast as Red) and sleek and he loves flying her---he’s riding on pure instincts, hands over the controls like it’s what he was born to do, banking and dipping through enemy fire, growing ever closer to the target, he---

 

He’s hit.

 

He’s hit and a lesser pilot might be out, but failure is not an option and Keith is not a lesser pilot. “Weapons down. Auto down. Son of a bitch.” The dash goes danger-red, recommends that Keith perform immediate evacuation. Not likely.

 

“Matt. You still with me?”

 

Matt and the rebels are still with him. But no one is able to take down the shields.

 

Keith inhales.

 

He can still finish this.

 

He can still disable the shields, he can stop Haggar, he can save Voltron.

 

He can save them.

 

His team.

 

His...

 

There’s a word that he knows, but it might not be the right one. Keith thinks that these people---Hunk, Pidge, Lance and Shiro---the ones that have held his heart in their hands since the first time they flew together,

 

He thinks they might be nothing less than soulmates.

 

“Keith?!” Matt’s voice is tight, unnerved.

 

Maybe it doesn’t work like that. Maybe that’s not the way other people use the term ‘soulmates.’ But if its meaning matches the way it sounds---people who are bonded at their very core---then Keith thinks it might be the best descriptor.

 

Maybe there’s no name for it, this _something_ that’s heavy and deep and sweetly comforting---like being made of the stuff of stars, everyone, together---and at the same time, almost crippling in its profundity.

 

Because Keith doesn’t know how to love in a way that’s _not_ fierce and soul encompassing and a little bit painful. Maybe he missed that part somewhere along the line---other kids learnt love in manageable ways with parents and siblings and schoolyard crushes. The way he learnt love was life altering.

 

No one seems to feel _devotion_ like he does; there’s no name for it. Soulmates. That’ll work. Close enough.

 

“Keith--” Coran is panicking.

 

Keith thinks that if it’s for them, he’ll do whatever it takes.

 

He shifts the throttles, lowers into the descent.

 

He hangs there for a moment that’s not a moment---because this is not a decision. Between himself and Voltron, between himself and them, there’s no question.

 

He drops.

 

*

 

Later, when he’s back on the Blade ship and his team is safe and the battle is over, later he’ll think about the choice.

 

He’ll weigh the options, shoulders square as he walks back to his quarters.

 

He’ll remember the way his ship smelled, of burning fuel, the air becoming stale as the systems lagged under the damage. He’ll remember the particular way the radio cracked, with so many echoes of his name. He’ll remember the shields, shimmering in and out of focus above the battle cruiser.

 

He tugs off his gloves at his door; the entry pad to his bunk is cold under his fingertips. His hands don’t shake.

 

He doesn’t regret his decision. He’d do the same, no matter how long he had to contemplate the options. Had Lotor not come to their aid---well. It would still have been the right choice.

 

In his room, he sets his comm back in it’s place, between the pop-tab and the pin.

 

For now, at least, Voltron is in range.

 

For now, at least, they’re safe.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;_; Keith, I love you, please dont ram ur ship into shit on purpose 
> 
> also. she’s a slooooooow burn ;^)


	9. Chapter 9

 

***

 

_ About a half varga hike away from today’s base camp, space whale, ????, ????.  _

 

Keith can practically  _ feel _ the eyes on him. He chooses to ignore it. 

 

He kicks off his boots first, enjoying the warmth of the rocks under his bare feet. He unfastens the collar on his suit, peels it down enough to pull one arm out of the sleeve. His fingers brush the hilt of his knife behind his back, eyes darting to the edge of the woods, but. 

 

It’s not like the creature is dangerous. Probably. 

 

Keith pulls the other arm out of the sleeve and undoes his belt, carefully setting it on a rock next to the hot spring. It’ll be in arm’s reach, but far enough away that it won’t get wet. 

 

With another look towards the treeline, he wiggles out of his pants. 

 

He eases into the water with a hiss. It’s blessedly hot. The steam coming off the pool, combined with the gentle roll of the spring against the rocks, the fresh smell of the surrounding foliage---all of it combined makes Keith feel perfectly dazed. He drops his head back against a rock, closes his eyes. He has no idea how long he sits there, the warmth soaking into his bones, rendering him weightless and dreamy and perfectly relaxed.  

 

The sound of leaves crackling underfoot. 

 

Keith whips his head around to look towards the woods through narrowed eyes. About five feet away, two amber eyes meet his. The creature shuffles back, half hiding behind a tree. Keith untenses, easing back into the pool, all the way until his shoulders are covered again. 

 

_ Crunch.   _

 

“You’re not subtle!!” Keith calls out. He gets up again, turns, expecting to see the beast at the edge of the trees peering out at him, but instead---

 

\---it’s right next to him, nose practically touching his. 

 

“Wah!” Keith jolts in surprise, losing his grip on the edge of the pool which sends him splashing backwards. “How’d you--?” 

 

The animal cocks her head to one side. 

 

“Okay, okay, you got me.” Keith grumbles a little. He sweeps his hair off his forehead, so that it stops dripping down his face. “Go on now, shoo.” He settles back in the water, ignoring the creature he and his mother rescued earlier in the day. It’s been hours, but the wolf (?) has been following him ever since. 

 

The wolf plops down at the water’s edge, clearly intent on ignoring his command. Instead, after a moment, she stretches out, lifting up one of her back legs to groom the tufts of fur between her toes. 

 

“That’s right, it’s bath time,” Keith comments, a little wry. “Smart girl,” he adds, a little less so. 

 

The wolf ignores him, daintily biting at a knot in her fur. Her feet aren’t exactly paws, like a cat or a dog, Keith notices. Three little toes.They’re distinctly alien, almost shaped like talons. The claws look wicked sharp. 

 

“Hey, how come you weren’t fighting back earlier, huh?” Keith asks. “You look like you could do some damage with those things.” 

 

She pauses at his words, mouth ajar, leg still outstretched. 

 

Keith huffs out a laugh. For a wolf, she’s not exactly intimidating. Maybe she’s still just a puppy? “Well, it’s alright. We’re cooking that nasty guy for dinner, so you’re safe now.” 

 

She closes her mouth and rises to her feet. 

 

Keith nods. “So you can go back to…” he trails off, not exactly sure what it is that constitutes a space wolf’s daily activities. “Whatever it is you do?” 

 

Without any warning, she darts forward, snatches his belt in her mouth and---

 

\---disappears. 

 

“What?” Keith scrambles out of the hot springs, looking around, struggling to tug on his pants, “Where’d you--?!” 

 

The wolf reappears, several yards away. She still has his belt in her mouth. 

 

“Give that back!” Keith takes after her, not bothering to tuck his arms back in his sleeves. 

 

The wolf takes off in a run, sometimes shimmering out of existence, and then reappearing somewhere else entirely. Keith is torn between being impressed and utterly exasperated. He sprints after her, swearing, his hair dripping wet and his sleeves flapping in the air behind him as he runs. “C’mere! Stop!!” 

 

The wolf eventually makes her way back to the outcropping where Keith and Krolia have made camp. Krolia is at the edge of the clearing, gathering up tinder for a campfire. She straightens up when she hears Keith. 

 

“Keith,” she says, taking in the general state of things, “Where are your shoes.” 

 

“She stole my belt!” Keith returns, pointing at the wolf, who disappears. “Augh! There she goes!” He takes four steps in the direction that she  _ was _ , only for her to appear on the other side of the clearing. “Augh!” 

 

Krolia raises her brows ever so slightly. She holds out a hand, palm side up. 

 

The wolf wags her tail. 

 

Krolia wiggles her fingers. 

 

The wolf appears at her side and promptly drops Keith’s belt. 

 

Keith opens his mouth to protest and finds he doesn’t know the words. He closes it again. What. The hell. 

 

Krolia laughs. It’s a sweet sound, not quite girlish enough to be a giggle, but gentle and lilting all the same. Keith feels something heavy in his chest lighten at the sound. He ducks his head, smiling himself, not quite sure how else to handle the feeling that overwhelms him. He’s still not wearing his boots. 

 

“Be right back,” he tells her, motioning in the general direction of the hot springs. 

 

She nods. 

 

It’s not long before he and Krolia are seated on either side of a campfire. The wolf is just outside the light cast by the flames. Keith tries to keep an eye on her, but it’s easier said than done, considering she just...disappears. 

 

“Hey!” he calls as the wolf appears in their sleeping area, and starts snooping around. “Stop that!” He turns to his mom, joking, “She’s searching for more of my stuff to steal.” 

 

Krolia considers this. “I think she’s teasing you because she likes you.” 

 

Keith grumbles at this, but makes sure to reserve a portion of his dinner to share. 

 

After they’ve finished eating, rather than take off, the wolf settles down next to Keith. “Careful, I’m beginning to think you actually do like me,” Keith warns the animal. 

 

The wolf blinks up at him, almost asleep, before teleporting herself directly into Keith’s lap. It knocks the air out of him and he can’t help but flail a little. He’s sitting cross-legged and she just barely fits. But she’s lighter than she looks. Must be all that fur, poofing her up. She curls up in his lap, content. “She’s so soft,” Keith breathes, running a light hand down her back. He fur is like silk beneath his hands. She shifts under his touch, resting her jaw on his knee. He scritches behind her ears. 

 

“You had a puppy when you were little,” Krolia recalls, watching the scene. 

 

“Did I?” Keith strokes a finger down the wolf’s muzzle which she doesn’t like nearly as much. He goes back to smoothing down her soft fur. “I don’t remember.” 

 

“You were very young.” Krolia says, the light from the fire casting shadows over her features. She looks both sorrow-filled and sanguine at the memory. “Your father let you name it. You both have horrible ideas about naming.” 

 

Keith snorts. “It can’t have been  _ that _ bad, if I was little. What’d I name it?” 

 

“Happy.” Krolia raises an eyebrow. “You named the puppy ‘Happy.’” 

 

Keith smiles, 

 

“And Happy we were not,” Krolia continues. “Because that dog ate every single, solitary shoe in the house. It ate your socks, it ate your father’s jacket...Happy even ate my mantle from the Blade, which, by the way, you are  _ not _ to tell Kolivan, because I later told him it did not survive the crash.” 

 

Keith laughs. He can just picture Kolivan’s face. 

 

“What happened to Happy?” Keith asks, hands now settled in the velvety fur of the wolf’s stomach. Her amber eyes are closed and she seems to have fallen asleep. 

 

Krolia pauses, brow furrowing ever so slightly. “That I do not know. Happy was no better behaved by the time I left, but your father was very fond of him. He should have lived a long and  _ happy _ life.” 

 

Keith’s heart twists. This is the first time they’ve really talked about Earth. Home. His past. “Dad...he…” Keith falters, his mouth dry. He doesn’t know how to tell his mother about the death of his father. 

 

She looks at his struggling and is quick to put an end to it. “I know.” 

 

Keith swipes the tears from his eyes. He hasn’t cried about his father in years, but this is bringing it all back, just as raw as when he was a kid. “Mom,” he starts, not sure of the word, not sure what he means to say. 

 

She smiles at him, the saddest smile, eyes full of love and so far away. “You wouldn’t be out here if he were alive. He’d move worlds to keep you out of harm’s way.” 

 

When Keith was in one of the group homes, maybe when he was about ten, one of the girls there asked him about his mother. When he told her he didn’t know, she responded, matter of fact: “Oh, my mother regretted me too.” Keith has never forgotten the shape her mouth made around the words, the tone of her voice. She said it flippantly, like it wasn’t heart breaking. 

 

It broke his heart and he’s been carrying the pieces all this time. Keith swallows, looking over the fire at his mother. He begins to ask, “Do you regret---”

 

“Keith.” Krolia says his name like no one else does. Keith never knew it would sound so different from her lips. 

 

“Keith. You are, to me, like the starlight in the night skies.” She begins talking, her voice smooth against the dark. 

 

Krolia’s life was not an easy one. She didn’t know her father, a blight on her character in Galran culture, and her mother had been cold. She was a distinguished admiral in the Empire’s fleets, her own lineage twisted back to Zarkon himself, though the connections were tenuous. When her mother was killed in battle, Krolia was taken by the Blades and raised as a agent to fight against her mother’s cause. 

 

“It was a lonely, bloody path, and the truest peace I found was on Earth. I wanted to protect that at all costs.” She’s honest, expression unwavering as she speaks. “I think now, I made the wrong decision to leave. I never wanted this life for you.” 

 

Keith looks down at the sleeping wolf in his lap. He thinks about finding the blue lion in his search for Shiro. He thinks about forming Voltron and the deep connection he has with the other pilots, and how that connection has liberated entire worlds. It doesn’t seem like one person’s choice could set so many things into motion. It seems a lot like fate. 

 

“But I’m so proud of you, Keith. Despite all my mistakes,” Krolia’s composure breaks, ever so slightly. “I couldn’t be more proud.” 

 

Keith nods, his throat too watery to form the words. He nods again, ducking his head. “I can’t get up,” he chokes out a laugh, motioning to the warm pile of fur asleep in his lap, “I’ll wake her up,” 

 

Krolia crosses the distance between them. She settles at his side, a hand brushing back the hair at his temple, pulling him close. She doesn’t say anything else, but her hand is gentle as it settles on his back. 

 

Keith closes his eyes and basks in the warmth of the fire. 

 

*

 

Every day, they travel to a different location. The terrain of the space monster he and Krolia are marooned on is ever changing: trees wither and die and burst back to life in a span of hours, rocks shift under their feet, water reverses the direction of its flow. Sometimes the visions of their past come with the changes---rolling over them like nausea. The visions make days seem like lifetimes. They often add an emotional burden to the already physically taxing situation. It’s a difficult journey; one that seems to have little direction or coherence. 

 

But. 

 

Krolia...is amazing. The more time they spend together, the more grateful Keith is that their paths finally crossed. He’s concerned about his team, the mission, the fight---but. Through training, talking, living together, Keith can  _ finally _ say he knows his mother. It’s like---everything is slowly coming into focus. He can see so much of his own personality in her: the way she can be guarded, her passion for what she believes in, her temperament, her sense of humor, of purpose, of duty. 

 

It makes him feel stronger. Like, finally, now that he has confidence in his foundation, he can build for himself something better than he ever has been able to before.  

 

*

 

Keith wakes up to the sound of a whine. He sits up, immediately alert. 

 

It’s the space wolf. One of the few constants on their journey, she’s followed them from place to place, never quite in reach since that first night, but never too far. Keith crawls out of his makeshift bed, peering into the dark surrounding their camp. The wolf whines again, pacing shortly back and forth nearby. 

 

“Hey,” Keith adopts the calmest voice he can, “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

 

She repeats the low, distressed noise and disappears. She reappears just a second later, eyes wide. And again, she flits in and out, cycling as she rapidly transports back and forth. 

 

“Shh, shhh,” Keith approaches her. He suspects his mother is already awake, but if not, there’s no reason to disturb her. It seems like the wolf is just...upset. 

 

“Shh,” he repeats again, arms out in what’s hopefully a soothing gesture. “You’re alright, it’s---oof!” 

 

The wolf transports herself into his arms. Keith catches her without a thought, hiking her up and wrapping his arms around her. “Okay…” 

 

He walks a little further from the camp. All things considered...in terms of nights on the space whale...this one’s not so bad. The air is cool without being cold. The woods surrounding them are full of sounds, almost familiar---rustling and chirping and the flap of batlike creatures---but it’s peaceful. 

 

“You know,” Keith tells the wolf conversationally, “Just because I helped you out, it doesn’t mean you have to follow me around forever,” he gives her a little squeeze, “you can, uh, go live your wolf life.” 

 

She regards him with large eyes. “Or maybe,” Keith sways a little and the wolf seems to like it, “You don’t have anywhere else to go?” 

 

She sort-of...shimmers...which Keith has come to recognize as the precursor to a jump. “Now no more of that,” he chides, “Don’t get all worked up, it’s time to sleep.” He sways a little, rocking her, and the animal quiets. 

 

“Hmm, you like that?” Keith nods. “Yeah you like that,” he rocks her back and forth, humming a little under his breath. She thumps her tail against his legs. 

 

“Okay,” Keith says, “But just remember...you asked for this…” He clears his throat, awkward, starts off more talking than singing: “...and I’m getting closer than I ever thought I miiight…” 

 

She looks up at him, and he starts belting out the lyrics: “And I can’t fight this feelin’ anymore...I’ve forgotten what I started fighting foooooor….”

 

The wolf lays her head on his shoulder. She seems to be relaxing. “That’s good because I don’t remember the rest of the words,” he tells her before humming the same two lines again. “And even as I wander, I’m keepin’ you in sight...something about candles….on a cold dark winter’s night…”

 

“Cause I can’t fight this feeling anymoooooore,” 

 

Keith laughs at how ridiculous he must look, but at least the animal is more or less asleep now. All she needed was a lullaby. “Clearly I missed my calling in life. Who knew?” 

 

Once she’s been quiet for some time, Keith returns to the camp. He puts her down gently.  She looks at him through half open eyes before laying down at his side. 

 

When he wakes, the wolf is still curled up against his back. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellow my friends did you watch s8? LOL  
> I think we can all agree dw absolutely goofed….on the other hand….I now have lots of ideas for the coming chapters. The description of this fic says ‘through canon events’ and from the beginning I planned to keep on writing past s8 regardless. I hope you’ll keep reading :> ty!! 
> 
> In other news, keith listening exclusively to soft rock hits from the 80s is a hc I will never part with


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very very much a slow burn, but in this chapter I am finally adjusting the heat settings /ever/ so slightly. Lets get just a little bit toasty

***

 

_ The black lion, planet G-delta4’03, Cygni System, Ipse Galaxy.  _

 

_ Keith is running.  _

 

_ He’s running, but he can’t see the ground in front of him. He doesn’t know why, but he’s running.  _

 

_ Something’s chasing him. There’s breath at his back, ragged, heaving, angry. He knows this breath. Shiro. Keith still runs, he doesn’t know why, but he’s running. He’s still outside his grasp. Who’s grasp? Shiro yells in frustration. Keith doesn’t know that voice. Shiro? _

 

_ He stumbles. Keith stumbles and the world tilts. Black gives way to lavender pink red glow then fades again to darkness, thicker and blacker than it was before. It’s choking him, the dark is, crawling down his throat, suffocating him, cloying and deep. Keith’s hands are in front of him, clawing at the air, trying to keep his balance, he’s running, _

 

_ Where is his knife? _

 

_ His knife is in his hand. Keith looks around, he’s lost, where is this?  _

 

_ He strains to hear but Shiro is gone--- _

 

_ He’s not gone, _

 

_ He’s behind him, Keith panics, twisting around, searching blindly. He has to maintain the tactical advantage---he has to---what? why? _

 

_ Shiro? _

 

_ His knife is in his hand. Shiro. Where is---? _

 

_ He falls. There’s something under his feet. Keith scrambles forward, hands fluttering over the ground, what was it, what tripped him? _

 

_ An arm. Shiro’s right hand, his human hand, his arm, severed from the shoulder, blood stained, pale and lifeless, fingers curled, stiff with rigor--- _

 

_ Keith’s knife---where is it? _

 

_ His knife is in his hand.  _

 

_ Keith screams.  _

 

Keith jolts awake, consciousness returning like being doused in cold water. 

 

His hands are twisted in the top of the blanket, pulling it taut almost to the point of tearing it. He eases his grip, slowly unclenches his fingers. He sits up in the bunk, drawing his legs up to his chest, rubbing over his eyes, up his forehead with his shaking fingertips. Palms together, eyes closed, he rests his face against his hands---nose against his thumbs, forehead bowed over his index fingers---almost like he’s praying. Penitent. 

 

He exhales a breath. 

 

The wolf whines by his side. Keith lifts his head from his hands, smoothes the silky fur between her ears. “Shhh, I’m fine. Just a dream.” 

 

He sprawls out in the bunk, kicking the blanket off his legs. He’s already forgetting. The memory of the nightmare is already fading from his mind. He blinks slowly, disjointed bits of the dream replaying in his mind, as his eyes scan the ceiling of the black lion. 

 

Shiro is just a few steps away. Safe. He’s sleeping in the yellow lion, along with Hunk. Allura and Coran are in Blue. Pidge has Romelle. Lance has Kaltenecker. 

 

Krolia is staying in the black lion with Keith, but it seems that she might already be up...it’s common for her to take a watch at night, and sleep while others are awake. 

 

They’re safe. His team is safe. Shiro is...safe. The nightmare is over. 

 

He rolls over, burying his face in the wolf’s warm fur. He hugs her, listening to her rumble, like a purr, but not quite. It’s a perfect, soothing sound. He still doesn’t fall back asleep.

 

*

 

The following day, Keith decides that Romelle has the loudest laugh he’s ever heard. Infectious and sweet, but above all,  _ loud. _ He can hear it before his feet hit the ground as he exits the blue lion, following a meeting with Allura. It’s more shriek than laugh, almost. She has her eyes squeezed shut and she’s waving one hand like, _ stop stop _ , while Hunk keeps talking, grin on his face: 

 

“No really, it was insane. So I told him, listen you can’t just pretend reolimide doesn’t exist--” 

 

Romelle positively cackles with mirth---

 

“---like, that’s a thing. And so, he said---Keith! Hey buddy, where’re you off to without even saying hello?!” 

 

Keith nods, approaching the two near the yellow lion’s front paws. “Hey. Uh, I’m kinda--” Keith motions to Black, in lieu of explaining that there’s plenty to do besides shoot the shit and he’s trying to keep busy. “Did you need something?” 

 

“Oh no worries. I was just telling Romelle about some of the wild stuff I’ve had to deal with in trying to get supplies since we’ve been in space.” 

 

“Just absolutely wild,” Romelle agrees, wiping a tear from her eyes. The earth expression sounds strange coming out of her mouth, but it’s endearing how serious she is when she says the word ‘absolutely.’ She tilts her head, always polite when she addresses Keith. “Do you suppose we’ll be leaving soon?” 

 

Keith nods. “About twenty varga, give or take, according to Allura.” 

 

They’ve stopped here, a planet that has no real name or residents, but is rich in quintessence, to essentially allow the lions to recharge. Without the castleship or the teledove, the journey back to Earth is a lengthy one, and even the mystical, science defying robot lions need a break. 

 

“Sounds like just enough time to organize a meal!” Hunk decides. 

 

“That’s…” Keith looks up just in time to catch the small downturn in Hunk’s mouth. “Actually. You know what? Sounds excellent.” Keith grins as Hunk positively lights up. There’s nothing quite like Hunk’s enthusiasm for food. Keith can’t deny how much he’s missed it, and how good it is to see Hunk so genuinely happy. 

 

He missed his team so much. Being back together with them just feels. Right. 

 

“Okay,” Hunk rubs his hands together, getting excited, “First we need to take stock of our supplies. Romelle. Can you go get Lance and tell him that I’m going to need Kaltenecker? I spotted some mushrooms earlier, and I think with some heavy cream and a little bit of magic, I can whip us up a risotto that’s going to be,” Hunk closes his eyes, imagining the perfection. “Oh it’s going to be so good. Oh, I’m excited…” 

 

Romelle is already mid-salute, but Keith interrupts. “Uh, actually.” He shifts. “Romelle can you tell Shiro our timeline for departure? I can talk to Lance.” 

 

“Shiro? Sure thing!” She gets up with a chirp and bounds off. 

 

“Everything alright?” Hunk asks as soon as she’s out of earshot. 

 

“Hmm?” Keith feigns innocence. 

 

“Between you and Shiro?” Hunk elaborates. At Keith’s impassive expression, he continues: “You two haven’t really been hanging out much since you got back. And just now,” Hunk continues, blithe as always, “I’ve never known you to willingly talk to Lance.” 

 

Keith shrugs. At Hunk’s frown, he tries to elaborate. “Shiro and I...we’re...alright. It’s been a lot to process. I’m sure he appreciates the space.” 

 

Hunk nods, serious for a moment. And then a smile slowly works its way across his face.

 

“What?” Keith asks. 

 

“ _ Space _ ,” Hunk repeats. “Because you know---” 

 

Keith snorts, giving Hunk a friendly shoulder whack on the shoulder. “We’ve already done that joke.” 

 

“Aww, c’mon it never gets old!” 

 

“Risotto, Hunk.” Keith waves, starting off towards Red. “Supper is in your capable hands.” 

 

It’s not that he’s avoiding Shiro….he’s just…

 

Yeah. He’s avoiding Shiro. 

 

*

 

“Knock, knock,” Keith calls, walking up into Red’s cockpit. Lance isn’t around it seems. 

 

He walks further inside the lion, into the small living quarters. “Lance. It’s me, Keith!” 

 

The bunk’s unmade and there’s dishes from the past few meals strewn about. The familiar sound of a shower echoes off the Altean walls of the ship. 

 

Keith ducks past the corner to find the door to the bathroom is open. Steam is gently wafting through the door into the rest of the quarters. “Lance?” Keith repeats. 

 

“In here!” Lance calls over the running water. 

 

When Keith peeks in, he can see Lance’s silhouette behind the shower curtain. He’s shampooing his hair, by the looks of it. 

 

Keith leans against the doorframe, not quite in the room. “Just wanted to let you know---” 

 

“I don’t have time for this, Keith,” Lance cuts him off, voice harsh. 

 

“Uh.” Keith stands up. “I can come back later, when you’re finished…” 

 

Lance’s laugh is a clear and full sound within the tiled walls of the shower. “Okay, alright, it’s settled. I guess I can say it’s definitely you, for sure.” 

 

“Me?” Keith frowns. “Who else would it be? What?” 

 

“Yeah, there’s no way your grizzled older brother would be half as clueless as you, Keith,” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

“I don’t have time for this Lance!” Lance says in his deepest, most gravelly voice. He seems to be rinsing the suds out of his hair. His hands sweep over his forehead as he tilts his head back up into the spray. 

 

“Oh. I did say that…” Keith winces. He was running on pure adrenaline at the time: The tumult of emotion at seeing his team, the realization that time had passed differently for them, the urgent intel he had to share about Lotor---trading jokes with Lance just wasn’t a priority. But. If he tries to explain that, Lance will probably take it the wrong way. And Keith doesn’t want to fight. “That was...” he starts again, 

 

Lance plucks a bright pink loofah off from around the shower head. It disappears behind the curtain. 

 

“Relax dude,” the sound of Lance flipping open the top of some alien bodywash or something. Apparently, nothing comes out when Lance squeezes the bottle because he smacks it against the wall, violently. “I’m over it.”   

 

The smell of citrus fills the air, faintly underpinned with that same expensive, clean smell that Keith remembers from being pressed into Lance’s chest all that time ago. Keith swallows. It’s a good memory. Most of his memories of Lance are poignant---whether its from the heat of bickering, or the thrill of fighting together, or the sweetness of getting along, Keith’s emotions always seem to run high when he’s with Lance. 

 

It’s been a long time since they’ve been alone together. 

 

He watches for a moment, Lance’s form on the other side of the curtain as he spreads the loofah over his arms, his chest. Keith feels his face heat as Lance bends, working down his long legs. He averts his eyes. 

 

“Soooo,” Lance drawls. “As fun as this conversation is, I can’t help but wonder: why are you here again?” He pauses under the water, and Keith sneaks a look to see that he’s holding up a hand, as if to clarify. “I mean, I get the whole saving the universe thing we’re doing. I’m wondering specifically why you’re in my bathroom.” 

 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Kaltenecker.” 

 

“Kaltenecker,” Lance repeats, incredulous. “You want me for my cow. Typical Keith.” 

 

“How is that---Listen! Hunk--”

 

“A likely story!” 

 

Keith can just picture the way Lance is waving his arms around, animated as ever, but he refuses to check to see if he’s right. He keeps his eyes trained on his boots. 

 

“One minute I’m chilling with my beautiful bovine and the next minute, you’re feeding her to your space wolf!” Lance surmises. 

 

“She would not eat your cow!” Keith throws his arms up and turns around to see Lance’s head poking out from behind the curtain. His cheeks are flushed bright red. The flush extends down his neck and up the tips of his ears, which look more sticky-out than usual with his hair wet. His bare shoulders are visible too, the water running past perfectly defined collarbones, down his chest. Keith turns back around. “Sorry,” he mutters, 

 

“Space wolves, Keith! You can’t control them.” Lance says calmly in response, turning the tap off. “Towel,” he says, poking one arm out from behind the curtain. 

 

Keith obliges him with a towel, eyes averted. 

 

When he emerges from behind the curtain, Lance’s hair is all floofed around his head from being towel dried. The towel itself is wrapped around his waist as he steps out of the shower. 

 

Keith feels his mouth go dry. The towel is...not that big. 

 

How did he never realize how slim Lance’s waist is, how lean his muscles sit under his skin? When Keith left, did Lance look like this? His rich skintone, dark nipples, long legs, lithe form.  Lance adjusts the knot of the towel and Keith can’t help but notice a small birthmark spotting his abs, just to the right of where wispy hair starts, its path disappearing under the towel. 

 

Keith swallows. 

 

Again. 

 

Lance drags a hand through the condensation on the bathroom mirror so he can see himself. Now Keith has a full view of the dimples in the small of his back, just above the towel. The way the muscles work in his long legs as Lance shuffles in front of the sink. He opens the cabinet and pours something over his fingertips, which he then lightly pats into his cheeks and forehead. “I’m not breaking out over this,” he says, half under his breath.  

 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Keith admits, tearing his eyes away from the backs of Lance’s calves. He looks pointedly at Lance’s reflection in the mirror instead. 

 

“Huh?” Lance turns, some kind of white cream now smeared under each of his eyes. It shouldn’t be nearly as cute as it is. “What?”

 

Eye contact is no safer then. Lance’s wide-eyed gaze, blinking and innocent, turned on him after so long apart, is making it difficult for Keith to string together words. 

 

“Just…” Keith has one hand pressed to his forehead, and the other waves at the scene, indicating he has no idea how to parse it. “Finish this. I’ll wait outside.” 

 

A few minutes later, and Lance emerges, fresh faced and fully clothed. Keith doesn’t know what to do about the feeling that pools in his gut. It feels like thrill and like disappointment and a lot like wanting to touch bare skin that isn’t visible any longer, but that he can now imagine all too clearly. 

 

“I wanted to talk to you about Shiro.” Keith blurts, because this conversation went much differently in his head. It had a much different starting point than Lance being naked. 

 

Lance looks completely taken aback. “Shiro?” he says, voice fainter than usual. “Keith.” He shakes his head. His expression has fallen into something pinched. It’s quiet, apologetic, gloomy...it’s not like Lance at all. “Keith,” he starts again, “I--” 

 

“I keep having nightmares,” Keith begins, doing his best to ignore the shame that’s making it difficult to speak. He doesn’t meet Lance’s eyes. “The fight. I can’t. I’m not.” Keith inhales, the rest of his words coming out in a rush, “I’m not handling it well.” 

 

Lance doesn’t say anything in response. 

 

When Keith looks up, Lance has his cheeks puffed out like he’s holding a breath. He blows it out in a raspberry, loud and unflattering. 

 

“What?” Keith asks him, beginning to regret this entire conversation. 

 

“Man, Keith,” Lance shakes his head. His hair is still uncombed and it’s a mess. “You are just full of surprises since you got back.” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

“Why are you telling me this?” Lance asks flopping onto the bed. He picks up his comm and flips it on, like he’s checking his messages. 

 

Keith frowns, hurt and a little angry. “I thought…”  _ I thought you’d be there for me, like you have been before. I thought you’d care. I thought you’d want to help more than you’d want to act like an ass. I thought… _

 

“No, I mean.” Lance sets the mobile down. “Why are you telling  _ me _ this?” Lance raises an eyebrow in question. He tosses his head in the direction of the door. “Go talk to Shiro.” 

 

“Lance, you---” Keith says, exasperated. But. Then again... 

 

Lance now has  _ both _ of his eyebrows raised and his lips pursed. He tilts his head, waves one hand, like,  _ go on… _

 

Keith has been avoiding Shiro, terrified of facing the reality of their fight, the intensity of the emotions there. Shiro’s death. Shiro’s role on this team, now that he is okay, but his connection with the Black lion has been severed. Shiro’s role in Keith’s life as a whole. It’s so much. 

 

But. Shiro has always been there for him. And maybe. Maybe it really is just as easy as Lance makes it seem. “You’re right,” 

 

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. 

 

“Excuse me,” Lance holds a hand up to his ear, getting up off the bed to invade Keith’s personal space. This close, Keith can smell the sweet shampoo, the soap just recently on his skin. He’s in Keith’s face, all shit eating grin: “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it---” 

 

“I’ll never repeat it.” Keith says, pushing him off, fighting to keep the grin off of his own face as he turns to leave. He already feels a little bit better. “Never in a million years,” 

 

Lance sighs, dramatic against the entryway. “You just take and take, Keitharino. All this wisdom---you only want me around for my amazing advice.” He shakes his head. 

 

“Wrong.” Keith turns around, walking backwards. “I want you for your cow. Kaltenecker. Hunk. Don’t forget.” 

 

Lance sputters and Keith snickers, trotting down the entry ramp.

 

“Joke’s on you, mullet for brains!” Lance hollers after him, “You said I was right and I heard it just fine! So what now!!” 

 

“You can’t prove anything Lance!” 

 

There’s no time like the present. Lance  _ is _ right and Keith needs to sort things out with Shiro. 

 

*

 

Keith can find Shiro all too easily. He watches his friends for a moment before he approaches. 

 

Shiro is just to the edge of the group, eyes closed as he listens to Coran endlessly explain something bizarre to Pidge. Hunk is fully utilizing Romelle as a sous chef, barking orders as he works his magic over a campfire and an assortment of pots. Allura is sitting next to Pidge, her legs pulled up into a butterfly position. She moves them up and down in excitement as Pidge asks a question, clearly not buying whatever bullshit Coran is doing his best to foist onto the collective. Shiro says something in response, no doubt dry, and Allura’s hand flies to her mouth, stifling a laugh. Coran digs himself deeper and with increasing volume and hand gesticulating. 

 

Shiro looks content. 

 

Tired, but content. 

 

Keith feels something pull, deep in his chest. 

 

When Shiro was lost on the Kerberos mission. 

 

When Shiro was taken following the battle with Zarkon. 

 

During the Naxela mission. While Keith was lost in the time void with his mother. During the heart wrenching battle they so recently underwent, the one that scarred Keith both physically and has left him feeling so restless. And then, when the clone’s body nearly rejected Shiro’s spirit. There have been  _ too many times _ when Keith thought that he would never be able to see that quiet happiness on Shiro’s features again.   

 

“Shiro.” Keith approaches the group. 

 

“Keith,” Shiro’s face upturns, always welcoming, open. 

 

Keith has never hidden any part of himself from Shiro. Shiro, who is good and bright and forever, _ inexplicably,  _ on his side. 

 

“Do you want to spar?” Keith asks him, hands in loose fists in front of his chest. 

 

If Shiro is surprised by the request, he doesn’t show it. He ignores the apprehensive looks from Allura and Coran, the unimpressed “Really?” from Pidge, and draws himself up to his feet. 

 

“Sure.” 

 

Shiro is silent as he follows Keith down to a clearing, away from the group. The sun, whatever kind of sun it is, is almost setting on this unnamed land. Shiro looms tall in front of him, shadows just beginning to take shape over his features. 

 

However, the height difference between them isn’t nearly as pronounced as it used to be. And, though the shadows can try their damndest, Shiro’s features are familiar and welcoming. At least that’s what Keith tries to tell himself. 

 

Keith takes a deep breath, turning to him. He rolls his shoulders, loosens his hands with a shake before forming fists. He faces Shiro, fighting stance ready. 

 

“I won’t provide much of a challenge,” Shiro half-apologizes, mirroring his stance. He says that, like a joke, but his expression is tight, serious. 

 

“You might be surprised,” Keith throws at him, circling, nerves making him jittery. 

 

Shiro favors his right side. He always has, but now that the Galran arm is gone, it leaves him open. Keith moves as if to attack, but doesn’t follow through. He’s caught in memories of their fight, the rage of that Shiro, the despair thrumming through his veins. 

 

“C’mon Keith,” Shiro says, easily evading Keith’s half-hearted attempt. 

 

_ I almost killed him, _ Keith thinks, emotion clouding his eyes.He falters,  dropping the fighting stance.  _ Everything, everything was on the line, and I almost lost him. _ His heart is beating too fast for this level of exertion. He shakes his head, trying to concentrate. 

 

“Keith,” Shiro says, evading another sloppy attack. “You’re not even trying.” 

 

“I am.” Keith grits out. He inhales one ragged breath. 

 

They need this, to reset. To normalize. Keith needs this.

 

Keith moves, much faster now. He lands a blow, ruthlessly taking advantage of Shiro’s opening. 

 

Shiro stumbles. He’s been sluggish since his consciousness and body were reunited. He bends, chest heaving, and Keith can see in vivid detail, the man he fought that day, the man who was trying to kill him, the man he would do anything to save. 

 

Keith resists the urge to rush to his side, to help him regain his footing. 

 

He’s terrified that when Shiro’s eyes meet his, there will be hate in them. Or worse, fear. 

 

But when Shiro’s eyes meet his, there’s fire in them. Determination. This is the same man who would not be beaten, long before the Galra had anything to say about it. The man who would not let his illness on earth hold him back from accomplishing his dreams. This is a man who will never stop fiercely and courageously moving forward. 

 

“Again.” He tells Keith, voice sure and strong. 

 

They continue, slipping into a past routine with no trouble at all. Shiro may have lost his arm, but he’s still cunning, predicting Keith’s movements with all the certainty that comes from years of knowing one another. 

 

But Keith of the Garrison or the castleship’s training deck is definitely a Keith of the past. It’s not long before he lands a vicious right hook. “Shit,” he yelps, ducking forward to help Shiro off the ground. 

 

Shiro laughs. “Alright, alright,” he waves Keith away. He’s fine. “I think that’s enough of that.” 

 

“Shit,” Keith repeats, “You okay?” 

 

Shiro shrugs his concern off. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to me today, I’ll consider this a good day,” Shiro tells him, gathering a couple of water bottles he brought. He sits down on an outcropping of rocks and pats the area next to him. 

 

Keith settles at his side. Dusk is finally coating the land. The ground is coated in an odd kind of yellow-red grass, and the sky is the wrong color too. Far from blue. It’s not cold but Keith draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. They’ll need to leave soon. 

 

“We’ve come a long way.” 

 

Keith knows that Shiro is talking about more than their journey home to Earth. He nods. 

 

“ _ You’ve _ come a long way,” Shiro continues, amending his statement. Keith swallows, looking over just in time to catch Shiro’s gaze. 

 

“We both have.” Keith replies. 

 

He feels closer to Shiro than he ever has, but at the same time, Keith feels so far removed, more independent than he ever has been, since meeting Shiro all those years ago. It’s strange. 

 

All this time, he’s been chasing after Shiro, terrified of losing him, of leaving him, of letting him down. 

 

“I was so scared, Shiro.” Keith starts, relaxing back on his hands, his legs sprawled out in front of him again. He lets his head tilt back, tracing the unfamiliar skies. Shiro was the first one to ever believe in Keith. Independent of any other agenda, he cared. He saw greatness in Keith before even Keith himself could fathom it. “I don’t want to live in a world without you in it.” 

 

Shiro exhales, long and heavy. He picks up the water bottles, offering one to Keith before taking his own. “I never meant to be your whole world, Keith.” Shiro isn’t old, really he’s far too young for everything that he’s endured, but in this moment, his voice betrays him. He’s tired. Worn.  

 

“I think I was in love with you.” 

 

Keith means to say it flippantly, like it means nothing at all to him, a frivolous childhood crush long forgotten, like this is a spur of the moment revelation and not a steady beat of emotion that’s been building to a crescendo for the past six years of his life. He fails, of course. 

 

Shiro pauses, water bottle halfway to his lips. Keith would have missed it, if he were able to miss anything Shiro does. If he were able to overlook the way his eyes flick in Keith’s direction or the way his hand tightens almost imperceptibly around the bottle. 

 

Shiro resumes drinking, finishes quietly. He sets the water bottle down in the space between them. He clears his throat. “You have horrible taste in men.”  

 

Keith chokes out a laugh. His heart feels full. Full to bursting. “Shiro. You were there for me when no one else was. I’ll never forget that.” 

 

Shiro levels him with a look. “I could say the same thing about you, Keith.” He pauses, “But. I never meant to manipulate you. Your feelings...I never meant to hurt you.” 

 

“You could never hurt me, Shiro.” 

 

Shiro’s eyes float to the scar on Keith’s cheek, still red with newness. “We both know that’s not true.” 

 

It’s not true. At one point in his life, Shiro was the sole person who could truly wound him. The one and only person Keith could not bear to disappoint. The first and the last person who believed in him. 

 

That weight has been more evenly distributed these days. 

 

His co-pilots who share his closest heart, bonded with him at his core. His mother. His wolf. His fellow Blade agents. The list gets longer and longer as time goes on. It’s a scary thing, letting people in. 

 

Shiro’s been quiet for some time. Keith touches his shoulder, hesitant. “But. Are  _ you _ okay?” 

 

“Honestly?” Shiro straightens up, casting a smile in Keith’s direction. “Living as an ethereal consciousness on another plane of existence after death, then being forced into a clone of myself created by an alien witch...it kinda fucks a person up.” 

 

Keith lifts his shoulders in a kind of half-shrug. “Understandable.” 

 

Shiro’s familiar laugh, self-deprecating and dry, cuts through the slew of emotions drawn taut between them. 

 

There are no words for everything Shiro has been through. He’s changed, of course he’s changed. But he and Keith still understand one another. 

 

Shiro tilts his head, thoughtful. “I’ve made it this far though,” He looks at Keith, eyes warm. “With a lot of help.” He holds out the water bottle like it’s a flute of champagne and he wants to make a toast: “To whatever comes next.” 

 

Keith clunks his bottle against Shiro’s. 

 

“That was so uncool.” Shiro comments. 

 

“I thought it was nice!” Keith protests. “We’re thinking about the future and stuff!” 

 

Shiro gets up and motions for Keith to follow. “Right now my future is eating whatever Hunk is cooking and then taking a long nap. This,” he waves to the clearing where they’ve been sparring and talking, “has been enough for one day.” 

 

Keith can’t argue with that. He and Shiro take a longer route back to the campsite, talking comfortably, like they always have. For the first time since their fight, Keith feels at ease at his side. 

 

*

 

They’ll be leaving soon. 

 

Everything is ready for departure. The area that they’ve been utilizing as a campground has been cleaned up, everything clear as if they were never there at all. The lions have soaked up enough quintessence to begin the journey into deep space again. Supplies are good. The route for the next movement or so is mapped out. 

 

Keith is doing a final sweep to make sure they haven’t forgotten anything. He expects the rest of his team to be resting before launch. It’s fully night now; three moons are high in the night sky. 

 

He steps out of Black, whistling to call his wolf. She doesn’t come. Keith frowns, whistling again, as he steps further out, squinting at the edges of the camp for her shape. Nothing. 

 

He hears something, a quiet murmur, and follows the sound to the other side of the blue lion. It’s not his wolf. 

 

Bathed in a soft blue light, Lance is talking to Allura. The two of them are sitting on the ground, in such a way it seems that they’ve been chatting for awhile. She has her legs crossed at the ankles. Her feet are resting close to Lance’s lap and as he talks, hands always in motion, every once in awhile he’ll lightly touch her ankles. 

 

It’s intimate. 

 

Keith can’t hear what they’re saying. The way Lance is talking, it’s not brash or overdone. It’s gentle. Keith can’t see his face, but he can see Allura’s.  

 

She doesn’t see Keith. She’s watching Lance, like she’s only got eyes for him. Like he’s hung all three moons and the stars too. 

 

And Keith thinks,  _ oh _ . 

 

That changed while he was away. 

 

He shifts, moving to leave. 

 

Allura must finally notice him; she moves to the side, further from Lance and calls his name. Keith lifts one hand in a wave, but he doesn’t interrupt. 

 

He ducks his head, walking quickly to the other side of the grounds. He tells himself that it’s to find the wolf. It’s not entirely a lie. 

 

He walks far enough away that the black lion is barely visible against the night sky. He whistles again and the wolf shimmers at his side. 

 

“Oh, so  _ now  _ you listen,” Keith chides, not at all angry. She wags her tail and he relents, bending down to scritch behind her ears. “We’re leaving soon,” he reminds her, whispering close to her face. “No funny business.” 

 

She must take this as a challenge because soon enough she’s shimmering away, playfully encouraging him to chase. “Hey!” Keith calls, motioning for her to come back. She doesn’t obey. 

 

“For pete’s sake,” Keith says. “Okay. Alright.” He knows this game. He holds out his arms. “You win.” 

 

With a pop that’s not exactly a pop, she teleports herself directly into his waiting arms. Keith laughs as he catches her and she licks his face in excitement. 

 

“You’re too big for this now, you know,” Keith tells her. She’s more than twice the size she was when they rescued her, far too big to be carried around. But he would never be able to tell her no. 

 

He hikes her up, situating the wolf in his arms. He hums a little, rocking back and forth, and she rests her large jaw on his shoulders, tail thumping against his legs. “ _ Oooh I, I just died in your arms tonight, musta been something you saiddd, _ ” 

 

“Keith?” 

 

Keith turns around so fast he almost loses balance, being so top heavy. “I wasn’t singing,” he tells Lance, voice unnaturally loud. 

 

“Never said you were, man,” Lance says, hands in his pockets. He raises his eyebrows, halfway to smug and Keith cuts him off---

 

“She’s just a big baby,” he says, pulling the wolf closer to him as if there is any doubt who he is talking about. “And it calms her down.” 

 

“What does?” Lance asks. 

 

“Singing.” Keith says. 

 

“But I didn’t hear anything?” Lance returns, mock innocent. He takes one hand out of his pocket and holds it in front of him, palm side up, questioning. 

 

“Oh.” Keith says, looking from Lance’s palm to his face, before he gets it. “Oh. Yeah. You didn’t. Because I wasn’t.” 

 

“Yep,” Lance says, hand now shooting a finger gun his way. He’s not outright smiling, but there’s something in his eyes that’s definitely laughing at Keith. 

 

Keith decides he doesn’t hate that expression. It’s obnoxious and idiotic and he definitely should---hate it, that is---but. It’s very Lance. Very attractive. He smooths down the wolf’s fur to give his hands something to do.

 

“Soooo,” Lance begins, rolling on the balls of his feet, “You talked to Shiro earlier. Everything peachy?” 

 

“Actually. Yeah.” Keith exhales a loud breath. He doesn’t know what else to say. The emotions there are raw and difficult to verbalize, but he’s thankful that Lance encouraged him to have that heart-to-heart. He needed it. 

 

Lance frowns, but eventually replies. “Good. Glad to hear it, man.” He hedges, “So. Uh. You’re back now and, well, y’know. I know you kinda shot me down last time, and, maybe I shouldn’t say anything at all, but, so, I just---” 

 

Keith frowns. “Lance. What are you saying?” 

 

“Um.” 

 

The wolf growls, low in her throat. She has her big paws on Keith’s shoulders, eyes trained towards the edge of the clearing. 

 

“Don’t even think about it.” Keith warns. 

 

She takes off with enough force to almost knock him to the ground, before transporting herself to the area. Keith regains his balance, shaking his head as he dusts himself off. She never listens. 

 

“Should we be worried?” Lance asks, mildly concerned as the wolf zooms back and forth, shimmering out of sight. 

 

“No,” Keith waves a hand, “Probably just a space squirrel or something. She’s just playing.” He purses his lips. “So what were you saying again?” 

 

“Uh,” Lance eeps out. Keith turns to him and his expression changes from nervousness to familiar incredulity. “C’mere,” Lance motions. 

 

“Hmm?” Keith turns closer to him. 

 

Lance smiles, soft. “Your hair,” he says, still motioning with his hands for Keith to bend closer. “It’s standing straight up.” 

 

The wolf was licking at his bangs, that’s probably why. Keith is about to explain, but then he finds himself much closer to Lance than he has been for the better part of two, almost three years. 

 

He realizes for the first time, he’s tall enough now that he has to look down into Lance’s face. 

 

Lance’s mouth is pursed, the tip of his tongue sticking out ever so slightly as he concentrates, fingers carefully arranging Keith’s hair back into place. Keith can’t help but be caught in his mouth, the shape of it. The roundness of his cupid’s bow, the pull of his lips as they move from pout to smile. The realization that his lips look  _ soft _ , that Keith wants to taste, that---

 

Keith swallows. 

 

Lance freezes, eyes wide as they look into Keith’s. “Uh.” He coughs. “You’re good now,” he lowers his hands. 

 

“Thanks,” Keith says, his own hand smoothing roughly over his bangs. Lance had been so gentle. 

 

...just as gentle as when Keith saw him talking to Allura earlier. 

 

What is Keith thinking? Fantasizing about Lance’s bare skin earlier? Getting lost in the shape of his lips? 

 

No. 

 

“Keith,” Lance starts, quiet, “I really---” 

 

“You and Allura?” Keith interrupts him, stepping back. “Since when is that a thing?” 

 

“It’s not?” Lance says, confused. He squints, almost looking hurt. Almost. “I--I mean, I’d like it if it was, a thing,” he says airily, trailing off. 

 

Keith tries for a smile. “Seems like it’s going to be. That’s great, Lance.” 

 

“Yeah,” Lance replies. He runs a hand through his hair, visibly deflating, though Keith doesn’t understand why. “I should. Go.” 

 

Keith nods. “Yeah let’s---” 

 

“No.” Lance turns. “I’ll go on ahead,” he lifts his chin. “You need to---” he motions with his hand in the general direction they last saw the wolf. “Catch ya later, Keith.” 

 

“Mmm.” Keith agrees. He watches him walk off. Lance’s shoulders, initially squared, hunch as he gets a little further away. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay listen the lions have showers because I say so, alright


	11. Chapter 11

***

 

_ Deep space, furthest reaches of the Loellia system, near the Tholos cluster, Slyphris Galaxy.  _

 

It’s cold. 

 

It’s dark. 

 

Keith’s head is pounding. 

 

He runs his tongue past parched lips. His bottom one is cracked but it stopped bleeding hours ago. Hours? Has it been longer than that? Days? He closes his eyes, like that action alone will stop the drumming of pain just below his skull. 

 

It’s not just cold. It’s not just dark. It’s the absence of anything and everything. A rolling nothingness surrounds him, turning him inside out and upside down. The vacuum of space is vast and deafening in his ears, like the width between them is inhabited by the nothingness as well.  

 

The alarm pings. 

 

“Sound off.” 

 

The words drop from his lips and disappear, sound swallowed without mercy by the boundless dark. Hollow. 

 

Seconds, no, tenths of seconds later, as soon as the breath leaves his lungs to ghost within the confines of his helmet, he cannot know for certain that he uttered anything at all. His lids feel heavy. He doesn’t blink. 

 

“Lance, here.” 

 

Ah. Right. Sounding off. 

 

As though crackling down an ancient telephone wire, the obedient replies from his team filter through. Their voices come to him as eerie caricatures of reality, distorted and flat. 

 

“Allura, here.” 

 

“Pidge. Here.” 

 

“I’m...” Hunk sighs. “Still here.” 

 

Keith inhales. Short, through his nose. The action takes the whole of his consciousness. Breathing is manual. Inhale. Hold it. That’s too long. Release.  

 

Did they sound off? 

 

His mind grasps for the memory of a moment prior. 

 

He has the panicked thought that he can’t tell if his eyes are open. Are they open? Are they---are they? Acute and total terror overtakes him. He blinks, rapidly, adrenaline and deep black nothing pulling his pupils as wide as they will go. Keith believes he can feel it. He can  _ feel _ it---they’re open. His pulse quickens, a staccato not quite in time with the dissonant pounding in his head. His already frenzied breathing comes more and more apart. 

 

Allura’s arm is looped through his right, slack at his side. Pidge’s skinny arm is held tight under his left. He holds them fast, pulls them closer, he can feel them, they are  _ here _ . They are together. 

 

He is not alone. 

 

Frantic, spinning against the nothing, the black-wide-mind-numbing expanse of space, they’ve found themselves moored only to one another.  

 

Keith doesn’t know what to do. 

 

This is  _ his team _ . 

 

This is his  _ everything. _

 

They have come  _ too far _ , to die here. Keith wants to sob, to scream. He doesn’t. He’s taking note of these thoughts, somewhere far away removed, both in the thick of hysteria and outside of it. Shallow breaths. He doesn’t blink. This isn’t really happening, this isn’t really him, his eyes are really open, he’s lost, they’re lost----

 

The alarm pings. 

 

“Should we.” Lance’s voice is there, but the meaning of the words is hazy. Lost. Like them. “Should we. 

 

Sound off?

 

Keith?” 

 

He inhales. He tries to form the words but something in him is disconnected. The words float like fragments and there’s nothing with which to anchor them. There’s nothing. 

 

The cold is sinking in. 

 

There  _ has _ to be something. 

 

Keith swallows around his name. He doesn’t hear if it comes out hoarse, if he says anything at all, but his throat feels raw so he must have. 

 

He grabs onto that feeling of rawness. Fights his way through the fog and the nothing and the terror. 

 

Discipline and mental acuity can fuck right off. They have got to _ do _ something. 

 

Allura is saying something about her father and it just. It’s not helping. A dead man, however noble, is not going to save their skins. This right here, the five of them, this is who they need. The realization trills through him, clearer than anything else: they’re going to have to save themselves. 

 

Allura is angry. 

 

“You have a lot of nerve---” He said the wrong thing, of course he did, and Allura is angry. “You  _ left _ us,” 

 

Lance jumps to her side. Keith doesn’t blame him, he understands why Lance would---

 

Lance’s voice, cold (why is it  _ so cold _ , Keith can’t feel his fingertips) and clear and damning: “You ran away.” He’s deadly, perfect aim. Sharpshooter. Lance lines up, pulls the trigger: “You ran away. Maybe you should have stayed away.” 

 

It finds its mark. Keith fractures. The wound is immediate. Irreparable. “I--” 

 

He thought they understood. He thought that, even though he’s been away, even though he doesn’t know the right words to convey it, even though he’s different. He thought. He thought they understood how much he values them, how important they are to him. He was still working on the words. Family seems too small. Soulmates. The ones most important to him. 

 

He pulls away, kicking at nothing, pushing away his everything--- _ get off of me, I’ll be alone then, let me go _ \--- 

 

There’s a scuffle of activity and Keith can’t separate the nothing from the everything. His chest is aching with pain,  _ physical hurt _ , and he doesn’t know if the harsh breathing in his ears is Lance or him, and is that Pidge crying out, and has Allura ever sounded so defeated, and Hunk---

 

Hunk has his ankle and Keith just. He can’t. 

 

_ Guess I don’t know how to be _ \---

 

“A coward,” he snarls. He says it with such venom, the spittle sticks to the inside of his visor. The crack in his bottom lip reopens and he tastes blood. 

 

His team is broken, and it’s his fault. The bond they share---the one that Keith thought was rare and wonderful, pinning them together, soul deep---

 

He thought. 

 

Maybe he was alone in that too. 

 

_ Guess I don’t know how to be close. Guess I don’t know how to make connections that mean something. Guess I don’t---Guess I can’t---Guess I--- _

 

He remembers sweet conversations,  _ warm  _ and fond from long ago: “Are we even friends?”  _ Are we, Lance?  _

 

“Oh don’t.” Lance gets it. He’s always been so eager to follow Keith’s lead. He knows exactly why Keith asked that. Keith hears that he understands, just like he hears the revulsion in Lance’s tone, coloring the comm line ugly. “Don’t act like you care, Keith.”

 

This is the first time that Keith has ever hated the way his name sounds in Lance’s mouth. 

 

It’s the first time he’s ever hated Lance. 

 

Lance continues. “I know this, we  _ all _ know this. I---” Lance sucks in, half sentiments sticking to his teeth. “You left. Know why? I do. You. Don’t. Care.” 

 

All of a sudden, Keith is not cold. He’s fire screaming through his chest; he’s tar and molten black; he’s oil, wretched and thick and dark with use, but still so  _ easy _ to catch flame; he’s a young supernova and this heat is made to consume. 

 

Lance always,  _ always, _ stokes the flame: “So why don’t you just drift off by yourself Mr. Lone Wolf, huh? Go on!” 

 

For all their sharp exchanges, Keith has never, never wished any ill will towards Lance. But in this moment, he wants nothing more than to lay in to Lance---to cut, to shout, to hurt---to make him feel how deep this wound is. How could the disconnect between them be  _ this  _ wide?

 

Fire and turmoil and that same, familiar crimson loneliness. He’s red all over again. 

 

“Guys?” Pidge’s voice. 

 

Pidge who will not fall apart because she can not. She pulls Keith from his thoughts, directing everyone’s attention to a brightness in the distance. 

 

Keith looks instead to the people around him, these few for whom he would have been a martyr; the ones with whom he’s crossed the universe---he’s lived and fought and  _ cared _ more with them than any others; he looks to them and wills the black bayard to his hands. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he tells them.  _ I’m sorry I said hurtful things. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough to stay. I’m sorry I can’t do the right things to make you understand. _ He tries to look each one of his co-pilots in the eye. It’s not their fault. If he’s alone in the devotion that he feels, then that’s his burden to carry. 

 

The black bayard is heavy in his hands; his arms feel like they could buckle under the weight. The heat in his chest has tempered and the cold is beginning to thaw but still, Keith’s breath comes out staggered. 

 

He closes his eyes. Hunk’s unwavering good. Pidge’s desire to succeed. Allura’s resolve. Lance’s fierce want. Keith tries to settle into their connection. 

 

It doesn’t come easily this time. 

 

“Together,” he tells his team. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘we are young supernovas, and the heat’s about to break’ is a line from a mountain goats song, as all perfect words tend to be: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMj6tCQ1MNc  
> That lyric felt important to me for this one. 
> 
> imo the space mad episode where they were saved by ~friendship~ was a huge let down. What a great set up!! And yet, the writers failed to DIG IN and give us anything substantial between the characters??? I wanted some real pithy drama!! That episode in particular made me want to start this fic. And now that I’ve written this chapter, I feel like I can really get going onto the GOOD STUFF lol hopefully!


	12. Chapter 12

***

 

_Room 1039, Floor 7, St. Joseph’s Hospital and Medical Center, Phoenix, Arizona, United States, Earth, Copernican System, Orion Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy._

 

The hospital makes Keith itch.

 

It might be due in part to the steady drip of the narcotic under his skin. Or maybe it’s the polyester blend of the hospital gown with its inoffensive pattern of little blue diamonds faint against the white. Maybe it’s the blankets bunched over his legs that are too thin to be comforting, but stifling all the same. Or the acrid smell of stale air mixed with sweat and piss and the chemical-y disinfectant that the staff douses over every surface at regular intervals.

 

Keith wiggles a finger under the gauze wrapped ‘round his head and scratches at his forehead, careful to avoid the tender area. He wants to shower. Or, at the very least, to brush his teeth. The slow and regular _clickwheezeclick_ of the machines at his side is giving him a headache. Each rise and fall of the EKG is like a reminder: _you made it, there’s still more to do, you made it, there’s still more to do._

 

Itchy. That’s the best way he can describe it---the urge that’s not quite restlessness, not quite unease, not exactly physical, not mental. It’s just. Itchy.

 

He leans forward in his bed, peering through the open door out into the ward.

 

The echoing clip of the doctors’ shoes across the tile floor is absent, and the gaggle of med students seem to be elsewhere. The nurses must be occupied in some other person’s room. The coast is clear. This is his chance.

 

Slowly, Keith tugs the blankets off his lap. Slides his left leg over to the edge of the bed until its dangling above the floor. It’s a herculean effort. Head dipping below his shoulders, Keith tightens his grip on the safety bar anchored at the side of his narrow mattress. He did not defeat Sendak and save the planet to be bested by some sluggish legs and a little headache. He moves his right leg and---

 

A nurse appears at his side as if summoned there. Keith sighs.

 

Her expression is severe. She has already made it clear---she’s a nurse, not a babysitter, and will be taking zero bullshit. “You might be a defender of the universe Lt. Kogane, but if you pull your IVs out again, so help me god…” She waves him back into the bed.

 

Keith complies. He might just be a little huffy as he spreads the blankets back over his legs.

 

“While you are in this room you are under _my_ care. Got it?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Good.” The nurse minutely adjusts the pillows behind his back. It really does feel better.

 

“Thank you,” Keith adds, a little belated.

 

“The only thanks I need is a full recovery,” she says, giving a cursory look to his vitals and the bags hanging distended from the IV pole, before she moves on to her next patient.

 

*

 

Keith must drift off because he’s awoken by a light rap of knuckles against the doorframe.

 

“I’m being good,” he rasps out, not opening his eyes. It’s been hours since his most recent escape attempt and, in his opinion, he’s been an ideal patient since. The nurse shouldn’t be cranky with him anymore.

 

“I’ve no doubt that you are,” Allura’s soft voice responds.

 

Keith cracks open his eyes with slight difficulty. His headache has abated, but they may have dialed up the hydromorphone. He feels very groggy. “Allura,”

 

“I apologize for waking you,” Allura shifts in the doorframe, still not quite in the room. “I thought you were already up and about. Of course, I’ll come back later…”

 

“No, it’s alright.” Keith sits up, smacking his mouth a little to get the furry feeling off of his tongue. He has a cup of water sitting on the bedside table and when she sees him reach for it, she hurries over to help.

 

Keith takes a sip and feels a bit more awake. He clears his throat. “Is something going on?” Of his four co-pilots, Allura is probably the one with whom he’s the least close. They don’t usually talk one-on-one, except for Voltron stuff.

 

She shakes her head, no nothing’s wrong, and indicates a chair at his bedside. “May I?”

 

Interest: piqued. Eyebrows slightly raised, Keith extends a hand. “Be my guest.”

 

Even in a ratty hospital chair, Allura sits like a queen. Back straight, she tucks one foot behind her opposite ankle, folds her hands delicately in her lap. “How are you feeling?”

 

Keith snorts and then realizes it probably comes off as rude. “Uh. Not bad. How are the others?” He’s gotten only the barest of status reports from his mom since waking up initially. Apparently his injuries were the worst out of everyone’s. Lance spent less than a day in the hospital before going home with his family. Hunk and Pidge have already been discharged as well.

 

Allura fills him in, her smooth voice a welcome respite from the drone of the monitors at his side. Her own injuries were mild enough (“Thank the ancients; human medicine is,” she sniffs, “rather different,”) that she was able to produce a wormhole not long after the lions were recovered following their descent back to Earth. With the wormhole, members of the coalition were already in attendance when Shiro made his global address after the last battle. Now they are aiding garrison officials in rebuilding the most integral infrastructures affected by the Galran occupation.

 

Pidge is assisting her dad with some of the more strenuous coding updates on the backend of the Atlas’ software.

 

Hunk and his family are leading the re-housing efforts for the people displaced or otherwise disadvantaged as a result of the war. Allura tells Keith that Shay and the other Balmerans are “fascinated by Terran architecture,” and keep getting distracted, but are otherwise excellent with the raw building materials.

 

Shiro is, of course, at the helm of the Atlas and therefore more or less leading the cause. He has also been roped into much of the public relations, for which “he’s impeccably suited.”

 

Keith smirks at that. Shiro has always been excellent at playing the golden boy. The garrison probably _still_ doesn’t know that he took his first year protégé out for after curfew hoverbike races.

 

“Allura,” he cuts her off once she starts getting into the minutiae of the ongoings of the Altas’ crew. He’s still a little sleepy, and she obviously has a better reason to seek him out besides their new bunk arrangements. “Why are you really here?”

 

Mid-sentence, her mouth hovers between a pout and and irritation. She slumps back in the chair, abandoning her proper posture. “Am I that transparent?”

 

Keith tilts his head in a kind of half shrug. Close or not, he’s known her a long time now.

 

She breathes out a sigh. “Keith. I’m afraid I owe you a rather long overdue apology.”

 

“Huh?” Keith squints his eyes in confusion. “No you don---for what?”

 

She’s looking downward into her lap, her hands twisted in unease. From this angle, her long hair half-covers her face, silvery white strands out of place. She looks up, resolved. Her voice is quiet, but clear: “There was an Altean piloting the last robeast.”

 

Keith frowns. His mother told him they were still recovering the shattered remains from that battle, but this is the first he’s heard of a pilot. “Are they okay?”

 

“She is...stable.” Impatient, Allura brushes the hair out of her face with one fluttering hand. “But. Keith. An Altean.”

 

He nods, not understanding.

 

“Naturally the implications are many---from whom did she get this technology, what are their goals, to what ends should we pursue---but, Keith. The first person I thought of, was you.”

 

“Me? Why?”

 

She shakes her head. “I was so naive. I thought,” she blinks, deciding on the words, and Keith thinks this might be the first time he’s seen her as anything less than eloquent, “I thought that the only evil in the war must be Galran. And that, by extension, the Galra themselves were the problem. But nothing is so black and white.”

 

Keith nods, remembering how resistant Allura was in partnering with the Blade at first.

 

“Oh Keith.” Allura presses her lips together. “When you first learned of your heritage I was cruel to you. I apologize. It was narrow-minded and foolish.”

 

Keith lets out a deep breath. “Allura,” he begins, not sure how to respond. Her blatant disregard for him _had_ cut. But he’s long since accepted his lineage and grown comfortable with that aspect of himself. And it’s been a long time since Allura has treated him as anything but a close teammate. If this _was_ an issue between them, it’s been settled. It’s in the past.

“It’s in the past,” he tells her.

 

She looks down, pale lashes fanning over her cheeks. “Just please know that you have never been anything less than honorable in my eyes. I have had the privilege of watching you grow from a remarkably skilled pilot into an excellent leader and---I’m thankful to fly with you. I count you among my closest and dearest friends.”

 

“Thanks,” Keith says, overwhelmed by her praise. This is an unexpected conversation. “Really. It---it means a lot.”

 

Nodding, she touches the corners of her eyes, delicately, to prevent the tears from falling. “Would it be forward of me to ask for a hug?”

 

“Uh. I guess not?”

 

Without another word, she leans over him in the hospital bed, enveloping him in a wave of her floral perfume and a gentle hug. Keith pats her back, slightly lost for how to handle this, but not unhappy.

 

“I’m sure you think me very silly,” she says with a soft laugh, pulling away.

 

Keith shrugs. “It’s not silly.” He scratches at the edges of his head bandages, a little self conscious.

 

“By the way.” He coughs, mind grasping at straws to change the subject into something lighter. She’s dressed in civilian clothes, more casual than Keith has ever seen her. “What are you wearing?”

 

“Oh. Oh!” A blush spreads over her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. It makes her Altean facial markings stand out, palest lavender against the flush. She tugs at the long sleeve tee that’s just slightly oversized on her. “Lance. Lance, he said I shouldn’t be forced to wear a uniform when everyone is off duty. He was kind enough to lend me one of his shirts.”

 

“That was nice of him.” Keith says mildy.

 

If anything, her blush deepens. “Very nice,” she agrees. “I’ve been.” She smiles. “I’ve been spending a bit of time with Lance. His family is very...welcoming.”

 

“I’m sure they are,” Keith says. He can just imagine how welcoming they would be. How could you be anything but _welcoming_ to the princess your son happens to be in love with? Keith is startled by the intensity of the emotion he feels at the thought. It’s not quite anger, but it’s just as ugly.

 

He makes a conscious and deliberate effort to squash down that reaction; these are the people closest to him. He will not hurt them because of his own...feelings.  

 

He’s careful that the words don’t come out bitter: “Is that where you’ll be going next? Lance’s?”

 

“No, not tonight, I imagine.” Allura fusses with the edge of the shirt for a moment before her hands still. “Lance said he had other plans, and of course, I need to keep close to monitor the Altean pilot’s status for any changes.”

 

Keith nods.

 

“Speaking of which,” Allura sighs, summoning the comm from a narrow band around her wrist. “It’s been some time since I’ve checked in. I really should be going.” She adjusts her hair, blush faded and any hint of tears long gone, once more the picture of royalty. “Keith.” She takes his hand, clasping his fingertips for a moment. “Thank you for hearing me out. Take care.”

 

“Of course.” Keith waves as she steps out into the hall. “Take care, princess.”

 

*

 

Keith pokes half-heartedly at the jello he’s been tasked with eating. He’s by no means a picky eater---the amount of food goo he’s consumed should be more than enough proof of that---but something about the rubbery chicken and off color green beans is turning his stomach. He used to think that if he ever made it back to Earth, the first thing he’d do would be to head straight for the nearest cheeseburger. Keith closes his eyes. He can practically taste it: the melty cheese, juicy beef, a buttery bun, crisp crunchy lettuce...maybe with some really greasy, salty fries on the side. Keith’s stomach growls and he opens his eyes. The chicken has a faint sheen, almost glistening under the fluorescent lights. The reality of his current situation is depressing.

 

Resigned, Keith picks up his fork. At least the jello will be a familiar texture by this point.

 

A frantic knocking at the door interrupts his thoughts. Halfway to his mouth, Keith lowers the fork back to the tray. He looks up to find Hunk motioning wildly through the window next to his closed door. “Hunk?”

 

The big guy shakes his head and mouths something.

 

“What?” Keith leans closer to the door. “What’s going on?’

 

Still shaking his head, Hunk draws a finger across his neck, a threat universally recognized. He ducks out of sight, past Keith’s door.

 

Keith can hear a distant clatter, followed by shouting even further away and the tap of footsteps. Seconds pass. And then the doorknob turns.

 

Hunk opens the door ever-so-slowly. He places a finger to his lips and _creeeps_ in backwards, eyes trained on the nurses’ station in the center of the ward. Once inside, he shuts the door with a delicate press, latch catching almost noiselessly. And then he turns to Keith.

 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Uh…” At a loss, Keith looks around the room including up at the ceiling, until his eyes settle back down at the tray over his lap. “Eating?” he tries.

 

“Not that, you’re not.” Hunk yanks the tray away from him and stalks over to the waste basket, vigorously shaking the food off of it.

 

“You know that was my dinner, right?” Not that it looked all that appetizing. But still.

 

Hunk rolls his eyes. “This is no time for your jokes, Galra Keith.” He shrugs the backpack off his back. “I don’t know how they expect anyone to get better, serving that _garbage_ ,” Hunk shoots the waste bin a death glare. He sets down his backpack on the foot of Keith’s bed, and once unzipped, starts taking out an array of little plastic containers and bags.

 

“Wha--”

 

“I figured you wouldn’t want anything too heavy,” Hunk explains. “So I really tried to go with bright flavors, but not, y’know, overwhelming. Nothing too rich. But still delicious.” He’s scooping out things from all the containers he brought onto a plate he also brought. He holds it for a moment, considering, then sprinkles a garnish for flair. “Voilà!”

 

“What _is_ all this?” Keith asks, mystified, turning the plate in his hands.

 

“For the main course, roasted salmon Niçoise salad, filled out with some in-season veg, jam-packed with nutrients and omega-3s, lots of antioxidants. It will pair nicely with the simple brown rice I’ve served on the side. And for dessert, nothing too sweet: buckwheat crepes with pears and crème fraîche.”  

 

“I don’t even know what half those words mean,” Keith admits, looking over the plate.

 

“Trust me,” Hunk says, handing him a fork.

 

Keith all but moans around the fork with the first bite crosses his lips.

 

“Hunk,” he says, tucking in with more gusto than he’s done anything for days. “This is,” he’s chewing and talking with his mouth full, “amazing. You’re,” he takes a sip of water and resumes stuffing his face, “the best.”

 

“Awwww, Keith,” Hunk beams. “You’re very welcome.”

 

Hunk gives a little hum of approval when Keith holds out his clean plate for seconds. “Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” he says conversationally, as he plates more food with care. “Everything’s been super busy since the battle.”

 

Keith nods. “I watched Shiro’s speech. And Allura filled me in on some of the other details.” He starts on the second plate, this time taking things a little slower. The taste is incredible. Hunk really is a god among men.

 

“Oh man, that speech was a tear jerker. My whole family was a mess afterwards,”

 

“Are they doing okay? I heard Shay was here,” Keith pauses shoveling food into his mouth to give Hunk a sly smile.

 

“For the last time,” Hunk raises his hands. “Not. My. Girlfriend.”

 

Hunk doesn’t exactly blush, but he does have a very telling way of pursing his lips and sucking in his cheeks when he’s stressed. He does so now, and the familiarity of the expression makes Keith feel warm. It’s a different kind of medicine than the treatment he’s been receiving, but somehow no less important.

 

Hunk starts rambling, filling the room with details about the work he’s been doing in the last few days. He’s always had a very exact way of describing things that Keith finds slightly pedantic, but today it comes off as endearing. Full and warm and listening to the technicalities of reinforcing plain old concrete with space-grade metal alloy, Keith begins to drift off.

 

Hunk starts gathering up his things.

 

“You don’t have to leave,” Keith tells him, struggling to sit up a little straighter. “M’still awake.”

 

Hunk waves him back into the bed. “Oh, I’ll be back for breakfast. No friend of mine is eating that slop. I was thinking,” Hunk pauses, a smile creeping across his face, “Blueberry pancakes?”

 

Keith presses his lips together. He blinks rapidly and manages a short nod.

Hunk is just as surprised at the emotion as Keith himself, it seems. He shifts from side-to-side for a moment, then decides: “Okay, buddy, that’s it. You’re getting a hug.”

 

He squeezes Keith around the shoulders, lifting him off the bed enough that one of the monitors starts a panicked beeping. “Whoops.” Hunk puts him back down and gives Keith a sound shoulder pat. “My bad.”

 

Keith shakes his head, feeling noodle-y and content and happy. Nothing about Hunk is bad.

 

Backpack once more packed, Hunk is ready to leave. He lingers in the doorway. “Okay dude, you get some rest. See you tomorrow.”

 

Keith is asleep before the door falls shut again.

 

*

 

“I heard you the first ten times, MOM. So stop!! Just stop!!!”

 

The door slams and Keith is startled awake---he jumps, almost falling out of bed, at the same time that one hand instinctively reaches towards his back for his knife. It’s not there, of course, and it takes Keith a half-second of alarm before he realizes exactly where he is.

 

His distress goes unnoticed by Pidge.

 

“AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” She stands, red faced, chest heaving. Scrubbing her hands through her hair, she repeats the noise, just as anguished: “Uuuuuughhhhhhhh.”

 

“Something...wrong?” Keith asks tentatively.

 

“Keith.” Pidge whirls around and looks at him. “How old am I?”

 

“Um.” Keith searches his memory as best he can. “Thirteen?” Sensing that he’s incorrect from the sheer rage radiating off her, he backtracks: “No. Uh. Fourteen? Fifteen?”

 

She throws her hands up in the air and begins to pace from one side of the room to the other. “Seventeen years old. I am seventeen years old. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

She ignores him. “And, well, first of all, that’s not even accounting for all the temporal anomalies we’ve encountered. In raw, actual days, seventeen is a good approximation, but who knows if it’s actually accurate. That’s besides the point. Anyways,”

 

She’s crossing back and forth in the space at the foot of his bed, hands jabbing at the air:

 

“Who was it that did a hard rewire of the Castle’s security on decks C, F, and G _during_ a solar storm while _simultaneously_ tracking an unidentified heat signature through the ventilation system that time we were stuck in orbit around Ecliptra-6?”

 

“Uh...you?”

 

“And who was it that single handedly wrote a program we later used to quantify the force necessary to shift an _entire city_ three and a half clicks to the west to avoid the path of an ancient monster that may or may not have been metaphysical in nature?”

 

“You.”

 

“And who was it who found Matt despite him being literal galaxies away AND the leader of a super secret rebel organization.”

 

“Definitely you.”

 

“And.” She’s getting more and more heated, listing things off on her fingers: “I also was in charge of all the interfacing with the Galra tech. I taught myself Altean to semi-fluency just so that I could code more effectively. I pilot one of five giant semi-sentient ancient robots. And I just saved the freaking Earth.”

 

Keith rubs a finger over his forehead, between his eyes. “That’s...all true.”

 

“So wouldn’t you think.” She slams her hands down on the foot of his bed and leans forward, glaring at him, _daring_ him to get the next part wrong, “That I am _more than qualified_ to drive a fucking car?”

 

“Yes?” Keith nods. “Yes. Definitely yes.”

 

Pidge throws her hands up. “Thank you! Of course I am!” She’s shaking her head and grumbling under her breath as she pulls up a couple of holo screens and starts clicking around. _“...stupid Mom, can’t even understand that…”_

 

“Anyways.” Pidge comes closer to his bedside and starts arranging the screens in front of Keith. She pokes his side, motioning for him to scoot over.

 

“Pidge…” Keith obediently moves to one side of the bed, but it’s not that wide…

 

“Relax, there’s no way you smell worse than Matt.”

 

“I…” Keith wasn’t really worried about that, but. Now he kinda is. He moves over---regardless of the situation, arguing with Pidge is more or less a waste of breath. Without any more fuss, she slides in to sit beside him. She’s little enough that, tucked into his side, the two of them fit just fine.  She bends one leg, foot curled under her lap, and leans in close.

 

“So I put together a quick rundown on the lions following the last battle.” Pidge’s hands move over the screens in front of them, pulling up reports on each of the lions in turn. Like all her reports, the data is articulated just so---complex but understandable and succinct. “As you can see, Black sustained the most damage, but repairs are definitely coming along. Turns out, Earth is rich enough in quintessence that Blue and Green didn’t really even need any extra support.”

 

Flipping through the charts, Pidge starts giving him a crash course in the specs of the Atlas, so that Keith is up to speed with her capabilities for future combat. “Shiro will be able to talk you through in more details, this is just the basics.”

 

It is all very... “Thorough.”  Keith plucks at one of the screens to get a closer view. “Thanks for putting this together, Pidge.”

 

She tilts her head, resting it on his shoulder for just a second. “No problem. I had to do _something_ instead of worrying about my friend sitting in the hospital with his head bashed in.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Don’t ‘oh’ me, Keith.” She says, sitting up. But she doesn’t seem all that angry. She slides down off his bed and adjusts her glasses, giving him a once over before sighing. “Okay.”  She takes a data pad out of her bag and sets it on the table next to Keith’s bed. “I’ll leave the rest of this here, just in case you get a chance to do some reading before you’re discharged. Mom says it probably won’t be that much longer, BUT I’m increasingly convinced she has no idea what she’s talking about.”

 

Keith keeps his mouth shut, knowing better than to get in the middle of that.

 

“Katie~! Are you---”

 

“COMING!” Pidge bellows out the door. “See?!” She starts to grumble under her breath as she leaves the room. “If she would have just let me drive here on my own, I wouldn’t….”

 

*

 

Just a few minutes after Pidge’s departure, Keith hears the door swing open again. Without looking up from the datapad, Keith asks: “Forget something Pidge?”

 

“Pidge?” Lance’s voice is incredulous.

“Lance?” Keith looks up at the sound of his voice. He’s dressed in civilian clothes---a button down and some dark wash jeans, and his floofy hair is actually styled. He looks….really good. Keith swallows. “Wow. Would you look at the time? Visiting hours _just_ ended. What a shame.”

 

Lance is standing, frozen, in the doorway. He closes his mouth, and one side ticks up into a smirk. “I’m going to be my usual gracious self, mullet, on account of your current health status. You get a pass for that one.”

 

“Oh joy,” Keith deadpans, but he can’t help the little bubble of happiness that expands in his chest when Lance slouches into the room, taking it all in. He has his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. It’s a familiar position, but one Keith feels he hasn’t been privy to in a long time.

 

“Hmmm,” Lance pulls one hand out of his pocket and rests it on his chin in contemplation. His eyes narrow. Without another word of explanation, he whips around and starts rooting through the stuff stacked on one side of the room. A couple hospital gowns and a spare set of sheets get displaced. He pokes his head around the curtain that could encircle the bed, and opens the drawer of Keith’s bedside table.

 

“Excuse me?” Keith asks, because, _what the hell is Lance doing?_

 

“You’re excused,” Lance responds, snide. After looking under the cabinet of the small sink, and ducking his head in the bathroom, he turns to Keith. He purses his lips into a pout, apparently deep in thought, and then, without warning, starts patting Keith down. His wide palms pat down Keith’s shoulders, over his chest,

 

“Hey! Stop!” Keith smacks him off, trying to wiggle out from under his hands (absolutely _refusing_ to be tickled in any way, shape or form) only for Lance to shove both hands under his ass and run his hands along the bed.

 

Keith won’t admit to the little yelp that escapes. He swats Lance off.

 

“Lance! What the hell are you doing?” Keith huffs out when Lance has finally withdrawn from his personal space.

 

“Aha!” Lance moves closer to the tv mounted on one corner of the wall. “Found it!”

 

“Found _what?_ ” Keith asks.

 

Lance waggles the remote control for the television in the air, and rolls his eyes at Keith, as though it should have been obvious what he was searching for. He clicks the power button.

 

“You can’t be serious.” Keith says, as Lance starts flipping through the channels, looking for one in particular. He finds the station he wants, kicks the chair closer to the side of Keith’s bed, and sits.

 

 _“No me puedes dejar!!”_ A very well endowed woman shouts at a man in a park at dusk.

 

“Lance.” Keith says, exasperated.

 

Lance holds up a finger to his mouth, like, _shhh._

 

 _“Estabas enamorado de tu hermano. ¡¡Debo irme!!”_ A man with an extremely chiseled chin responds.

 

“Lance,” Keith tries again. Lance doesn’t look at him, but instead, taps the volume button to increases the sound of the program in response.

 

 _“_ _¡Él no es mi hermano! Solo tengo ojos para ti, mi amor!”_ The woman is crying now.

 

With no will left to fight, Keith settles back into the bed, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t know enough Spanish to follow the plot, but it seems to be convoluted enough to involve at least two other men and one very devious looking woman with dark lipstick. The original woman’s shirt becomes more low cut with every scene change.

 

At his side, Lance is watching the telenovela with seemingly rapt attention. With his eyes on the screen, Keith is free to look at him, really _look_ at him. Being back on Earth has been good for Lance, it seems. Keith drinks him in---warm skintone, teasing mouth, the dark freckle spotting the long column of his neck, the pretty jut of his exposed collarbones. The slouch in his shoulders, the loose way his face is upturned towards the screen. He looks more relaxed than he has been since they began their journey back to Earth, happier. More like Lance. Keith is glad for it.

 

Ever fidgeting, Lance drums his fingers on the sheets at Keith’s side, and it’s tempting to lay one of his hands over Lance’s in an effort to keep them still. He doesn’t.

 

“Your room in the ICU didn’t have a tv.” Lance says abruptly, when the show switches to a commercial break.

 

Keith blinks, only half hearing. “It didn’t?”

 

“It was the worst,” Lance continues, as if uninterrupted: “You were hooked up to that godawful vent, and it was loud and there were so many tubes, and there were all these,” he waves his hands in front of him, “People. Keith. All these _people_ constantly touching you when you don’t _ever_ let people touch you, and. You were so pale. And. And I.” He stops. He turns to Keith, meeting his eyes for the first time. “This room is better.”

 

“Because of the tv.” Keith supplies, voice soft. Lance’s eyes are so serious.

 

“Yeah, Keith.” Lance’s voice is dull. “Because of the tv.”

 

“It’s not even a good show,” Keith says. He means it as a joke, anything to lighten the dark mood in Lance’s eyes, but it doesn’t quite work.

 

Lance laughs. It’s a harsher sound than his normal snicker. “You’re impossible.” He shakes his head.  

 

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

 

“Me? Impossible?” Lance must decide to go along with the jibe. Dropping the serious expression, his features soften and he taunts: “Impossible to hate, maybe.” He has one hand under his chin and he starts batting his eyes.

 

Keith snorts out a laugh. It’s a full laugh, right from his belly and it feels good. It’s good to talk to Lance again.

 

“Hey man,” Lance says, smile twisting his lips and words into something kind, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Lance reaches up, tucking the hair falling in Keith’s face behind his ear. Keith can feel his fingers linger over the gauze, and he wonders if he’s imagining the tremor there. Lance runs the edge of his thumb over one of Keith’s eyebrows and admits: “I figured your head was too hard to break, y’know. Kind of a shock.”

 

Keith encircles Lance’s wrist with his hand, pulling his hand down. His wrist is narrow, slighter than Keith expected. “I’m okay,” he repeats.

 

“We did it.” Lance tells him. His hand is lax in Keith’s as if content to stay there. “The whole saving the Earth thing.”

 

Keith nods and drops Lance’s hand. “We have more to do.”

 

Lance wrinkles his nose at Keith and turns back to the television. “Like finding out if Gaviota will have Sebastian’s baby.”

 

“Is _that_ what’s going on?” Keith asks, mildly alarmed.

 

Lance makes a noise as if Keith’s lack of knowledge is an absolute affront to his very being. He turns down the television and starts talking, the plot for the show easily devolving into anecdotes---first from Lance’s past, and then more recent stories about reuniting with his family. He’s in rare form, making Keith laugh more easily than usual, as the stories get more and more far fetched.

 

One of the nurses---a different one from this morning---comes in and warns them when they get too loud. Lance blames Keith and Keith blames Lance and the nurse raises her eyebrows until they promise to be quiet.

 

“The thanks we get for being defenders of the universe,” Lance shakes his head. He seems reluctant to leave, drawing out the conversation, and shuffling around Keith’s bed for a long time after he’s gotten out of the chair. When he finally does say “Catch ya later, Keith-y boy,” it’s with a smile that seems so genuinely sorry to leave, it makes Keith want to beg him to stay.

 

He doesn’t.

 

*

 

“Knock, knock,” Shiro calls out, poking his face in the room, checking to see if Keith is asleep before coming inside. It’s late. “Keith. How’re you feeling? I heard you’ve had a few visitors since I last stopped in?”

 

Keith grins. “Like a goddamn revolving door,” he agrees, but there’s no heat to it.

 

“Too tired for me?” Shiro asks.

 

“Never.”

 

Shiro pulls out the chair from where Lance had flush against Keith’s bed, but Keith holds up a hand, like, _wait._

 

“Isn’t this….” Keith smirks at Shiro’s questioning face, “Shouldn’t this be….the other way around?” He motions to himself in the hospital bed and Shiro standing at his side.

 

Shiro pulls a face. “Har har.” He settles at Keith’s bedside, unbuttoning the top couple buttons of his uniform. He’s likely been up since 0500 hours, and he’ll have to do it all again tomorrow, but for now, Keith has his full attention.

 

Keith answers the barrage of questions about what the doctors have said about his injury and recovery and whether he’ll need physical therapy, and so on. It’s not long before Keith gets impatient over being fussed over, and turns the conversation around.

 

“So. How are things going with the cause, Commander Shirogane?”

 

Shiro groans and rests his head in his hands. “Don’t you start on me too. If I didn’t have my hair changed by a consciousness transfer from the astral plane, I would definitely be getting gray hairs from this. All day it’s been ‘Commander this’ and ‘Commander that.’ I’m exhausted.”

 

Keith shoves his shoulder lightly. “Don’t lie. You love it.”

 

Shiro peeks through his fingers. When he raises his head, his expression is sheepish. “I do.”

 

Keith settles in the bed, listening to Shiro’s voice as he explains: “Being at the helm of the Atlas...feels right. I can’t exactly say why, but it’s like...I feel useful.”

 

Keith nods, but he doesn’t interrupt.

 

“Keith. For the first time since I was put back in this body. I felt present. When the Atlas transformed, I was there, precipitating the change. I was finally me again.”

 

“Shiro.”

 

Shiro gives him a smile, wry as always. He’s never liked to share, but with Keith he’ll sometimes make an exception. “Guess I’m crazy after all, huh?”

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Keith shrugs. Shiro laughs and Keith feels that same warmth.

 

Keith is one of five at the forefront of a war for many worlds and so much good.

 

Shiro is on his side, forever and always, but now he might not be the only one.

 

His headache has subsided and his belly is full and his friends are safe.

 

The battle isn’t over, but they won this fight.

 

These are the facts.

 

*

 

It’s late enough that the lights in the ward are dimmed. The nurses are clicking over screens and talking in hushed tones, most of their patients fast asleep. The phone rings and one of them answers it, his voice a soft lilt among the constant whirr of the machines.

 

Keith turns in his bed. He sits up, feels a familiar prickly feeling right before---

 

“Ooof!”

 

The wolf’s tail thumps against the bed. “Shhhhh,” Keith tells her, as she stops shimmering. She boops her big head against his chest. He turns to his side and she settles down, right against his back. She starts her rumble, the one that’s not quite a purr.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol this chapter is the most self indulgent one yet.....just everyone being nice to keith......i love my boy


	13. Chapter 13

***

 

_ Training Hall B, Deck 6, USS Atlas, course set to transverse Gal’le sector, Veha system, Ceyl Galaxy.  _

 

Bayard summoned to his hand, Keith moves with ease. He flicks his wrist and his mother’s knife elongates in his opposite hand. He adjusts his stance, eyes fluttering shut as he maintains his center of gravity, _ feels  _ what’s right while wielding both blades. 

 

He steps forward, giving the air around him a few experimental strikes as he takes note of his range of motion. The mats of the training deck crinkle under his boots as he pivots, imagining an opponent, predicting a attack here, drawing back to defend there. It’s quiet. 

 

‘Quiet’ is what he was after. As a general rule, life aboard the Atlas has been anything but. With the sheer number of people aboard, and the size of the vessel, it seems that there’s always something going on: from the busy mess hall, to the larger training decks, the aircraft hangers, the labyrinth of meeting rooms, the chaotic living quarters... 

 

Keith knows more than half of those on board by face if not by name---but without fail, they _ all  _ know him. He can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it all. (The first time one of the crew hands addressed him as ‘sir,’ Keith actually looked around...not entirely certain to whom they were speaking.) He’s proud to lead his team, and, at long last, he feels settled in calling himself the Black Paladin. But at his core, he feels like he’s just a guy from nowhere who learned he loved to fly at nearly the same time he learned to love at all----now, he’s doing both the best way he knows how: with his whole spirit, sincere and vehement.

 

And sometimes ‘sincere and vehement’ isn’t enough to prevent a mistake, and those are the times that Keith wonders…should he really be in this position of authority? 

 

His role aboard the ship aside, the bustle of the Atlas is worlds away from the hushed, stoic atmosphere he grew accustomed to with the Blades. And it’s nothing like the small family they made together aboard the Castle of Lions. 

 

He frowns, letting the black bayard dissolve from his grip. He’s yet to dual wield in actual hand-to-hand combat, and maybe he never will. He’s gotten used to switching between hands with his knife, so much so that the additional weapon just feels clunky. He can’t seem to adjust. It’s a shame because using two swords at the same time had seemed like such a cool idea…

 

(The truth is, his inability isn’t really about the extra weapon.) 

 

He came to this training room under the pretense that the other members of the crew in the main gym make it difficult to concentrate. No matter the time, there’s always at least one person on the machines or standing around the free weights, so Keith came here, to this far more removed and therefore empty gym. But. 

 

The truth is, Keith isn’t all that opposed to sparring with a random crew member, or the casual amiability that comes with sharing the gym during an early morning workout. He came here for the quiet, not to train, but to think. 

 

(The truth is, he’s just having trouble focusing at the moment.) 

 

Because even though the ship is full of people, there’s two very  _ specific  _ people he’s trying, and failing, to avoid. 

 

Allura and Lance. 

 

Before they left Earth, Lance had talked to him about a date with Allura. He had seemed hesitant about it at the time, a strange sort of hesitation that wasn’t entirely in character. Throughout the years of knowing him, Keith has gradually come to understand that Lance has a funny habit of saying a lot of words when he really wants to say one thing specifically. He’ll let his mouth run like the way his hands turn over in the air in front of him, gesturing around the point he’s never quite getting at. The conversation they had about the date was like that, Lance stating an odd insecurity about clothes and babbling about nothing, all while stealing half glances at Keith, almost like he was waiting for something. 

 

Keith made the decision to say the words that Lance wanted to hear, not because they were the words he wanted to say, but because it was the right thing to do. He encouraged Lance.

 

(He encouraged Lance, and in the moment it felt like a win. Because in the past there have been times---’ _ Leave the math to Pidge _ ,’ Keith cringes at the memory, and the even worse: ‘ _ I just don’t want to be stuck here for an eternity with Lance,’ _ \---where he fumbled the opportunity. Not this time.)

 

Keith finally said the right thing at the right time and Lance went on the date and everything is happening as it should: Lance and Allura are together now. But, it feels  _ different _ than Keith thought it would. 

 

Lance never crows about her being his girlfriend. They aren’t attached at the hip, or overtly, obnoxiously a couple---they don’t hold hands, or do anything extremely publicly affectionate, or mention they’re dating at all really. It’s much more subtle than that: 

 

It’s the way Lance is a little quieter when he’s around her, like something’s settled in him. The way he looks at her when she talks, attention rapt, leaning forward ever so slightly, just to be that much closer. 

 

The way Lance’s hand will ghost over the back of her arm, or touch lightly at the small of her back when they walk side-by-side. The gesture doesn’t come off as possessive, but familiar. Relaxed. 

 

The faintest tinge of Allura’s cherry colored balm staining Lance’s lips. 

 

After a meeting or a challenging conversation, or sometimes post training or battle, Allura will pull him close, tilt her head just so to rest against Lance’s chest. The action is never performative; it lasts only for a moment, like she’s taking comfort just in the fact that he’s there. 

 

The fact that Lance has definitely moved into Allura’s quarters. His own room, next to Keith’s, lies vacant. 

 

Keith can  _ feel _ it, when the team’s minds and hearts are close because of the bond. They form Voltron and it’s a dreamy, pleasant happiness, Lance and Allura’s relationship. It’s light and airy and charming. The sensation is wholly unlike the thick entanglement of emotion Keith associates with the idea of love. It’s much kinder than the fierce devotion that drums throughout his chest, the affection so strong it cuts, smarting and to the quick. 

 

Maybe that’s the way love is  _ supposed  _ to feel. Keith flips the luxite blade to his other hand and thinks a bitter thought:  _ Like I’d know.  _

 

Months have passed since they’ve left Earth. He’s lucky to be aboard this ship, with the ones he considers dear, still fighting for what he thinks is right. Like Shiro said, they’ve come a long way. 

 

Sometimes he doesn’t feel lucky. 

 

Last night, by pure luck, Keith was in the kitchen after hours. 

 

Even with his head half in the fridge he could hear Lance and Allura coming down the hall. Lance was talking in an overdone whisper---the theatrical kind that people use to hush others but are actually really loud. And Allura was giggling. He kept shushing her and she kept giggling as they made their way down the corridor into the mess hall. 

 

Keith looked up just in time to see the two of them stumble into the kitchen, tugging at each other, working at keeping their voices down and their laughs from traveling. Keith didn’t expect---

 

“Oh,” Allura froze at the sight of him. 

 

She was wearing only the thin pajama top from the blue lion---the same one that Keith remembers Lance wearing while showing up late to countless morning meetings. The silk barely reached past the tops of her thighs. She was barefoot and her hair was completely unbraided, long waves looser than Keith had ever seen them. Her face flushed at seeing Keith and she tugged the shirt down a little lower, looking to Lance. 

 

Lance who was in a pair of boxers, his hair equally mussed. There were few stray marks down his chest and shoulders, pink against his deep skintone---maybe left from fingernails or teeth. Keith raised his eyes to Lance’s face before he could know for sure. 

 

Lance was frozen for a moment too, eyes wide meeting Keith’s, one hand still slung around Allura’s hips. 

 

And then, he blinked. He pulled Allura just a little closer and huffed out a laugh close to her ear. “Relax, babe, it’s just Keith.” 

 

Allura smiled weakly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and held her hands folded in front of her. “Pardon us, Keith. We really didn’t think anyone else would be up and about at this hour.” 

 

Keith shrugged, not bothering with an excuse, as Lance was already padding up to his side to join him in front of the fridge. He leaned across him and Keith could smell not the clean smell he’s always associated with Lance, but something muskier, something more masculine. 

 

Keith swallowed. Took a step back. 

 

Lance didn’t notice, too busy listing off possibilities for midnight snacks to Allura. She vetoed them all, haughty in a teasing way that made Lance roll his eyes in a kind of pleased bemusement.  

 

Neither of them noticed when Keith finished, suddenly very ready to head back to his bunk. Before he slipped out of the room, he caught Allura licking her fingers, the peanut butter from the sandwich Lance had made for her slightly messy.

 

And it shouldn’t bother him. The sight of Allura holding a triangle of PB&J halfway to her mouth, sandwich forgotten as Lance waves a knife around, intent on telling her a story to make her laugh. It shouldn’t. The whole thing shouldn’t bother Keith. They are two people for whom he wants only happiness---and if they’ve managed to find it in each other, even in the midst of war, then how could he possibly wish for anything better? It shouldn’t bother him. But it does. 

 

He’s trying to work through it. 

 

Keith collapses the sword back into his knife. He’s considering grabbing one of the bow staffs, just to try something different, when the door slides open.

 

“Oop! Just a little to the side, yes, there we have it---” 

 

Coran---or, well, to be more literal---a large stack of boxes being carried by Coran appears in the doorway. The boxes look heavy and Keith watches with mild alarm as Coran teeters to one side, then the other, boxes wobbling precariously. 

 

“Um.” Keith tilts his head, trying and failing to actually, y’know,  _ see _ Coran. “Do you...maybe...need some help?” 

 

“Help?” Coran takes another step, further into the room and nearly trips over the floor mats, “Help!!” he shouts. 

 

Keith just barely manages to make it to his side to prevent him from face planting into the floor, but the contents of his arms are not so fortunate. The boxes smash to the ground and a whole bunch of…stuff is now everywhere. 

 

“What  _ is _ all this?” Keith wonders, picking up what appears to be a racket of some sort. It’s much lighter than he expects. 

 

One of the mice has scurried out of the box and found a mouse sized piece of the equipment---he is wearing it like a headdress, which Keith suspects is not the intended use. Coran plucks the small, feathery, ball-like thing off the mouse’s head with a disapproving finger wag, before answering Keith’s question: “The tifflewiffle set we procured on Karrol-12, of course.” 

 

“Right,” Keith picks up a corner of a net, only to find it’s much larger and more tangled than he realized. “Don’t think I was there for that.” 

 

Coran is definitely making the tangles worse instead of better. He has his entire arms buried in the net and looks to be caught. He responds, cheerful, “Well, you missed quite the game then! Nothing like a good show of Karrolvian sportsmanship to really get the blood pumping!!” 

 

Keith nods, not quite sure how to continue this conversation. “I’ll have to….catch it next time?” 

 

Coran turns to him, fire in his eyes, net somehow wrapped around his legs now too. His mustache quivers with excitement, and that’s how Keith knows he’s been duped: “Now that!! That’s an idea!!” 

 

“No---I---” 

 

No sooner does Keith protest than Coran has the comm out and is sending several semi-frantic messages. 

 

And it’s not even a dobash before other people start arriving: Hunk and Pidge first, then Veronica and Kinkade tailed by an uptight looking Griffin, the other MFE pilots (Keith should remember their names but he doesn’t), Axca, a bunch of other crew members---hell, even Iverson trails in. 

 

So much for Keith’s quiet. 

 

They all gather ‘round as Coran (miraculously un-tangled now) works at setting up a net and explaining the rules of the game. And the history. And the story of the last time he played---in what became a legendary match against the heir of Cozaar---

 

“So it’s badminton.” Pidge says, thoroughly unimpressed. “The shipwide emergency call you sent out was to play badminton.” 

 

“Number five,” Coran winks at her. “There’s nothing bad about it.” 

 

“I’m leaving.” 

 

“Hey! No!” Veronica butts in, tugging slightly at Pidge’s arm. “This looks fun!!” 

 

Hunk smiles goodnaturedly. “Hey if this is what we’re doing today, it’s okay with me. Beats those weird boxing matches he signed us up for on Sulpa that involved, like, actual boxes.” 

 

“I’ll play,” Rizavi agrees, shrugging off her uniform jacket and gathering her long hair into a ponytail. “You Voltron guys scared you’ll lose?” 

 

“Psssh, in your dreams,” Lance responds, suddenly at Keith’s side. When did he come in? He leers at the MFE pilots and then grins at Keith, jostling his elbow like they’re sharing a private joke. “We were  _ born  _ to beat you at…” he pauses, 

 

“Tifflewiffle.” Kinkade supplies. He might be the only one who has actually been listening to Coran properly. 

 

The pilots square off, clear lines suddenly drawn. Team Voltron versus the MFE pilots. It’ll be an all out war. 

 

“Alrighty, then,” Coran waves his hands bringing them back in. “The rules can be somewhat complex for those of you with, shall we say,  _ challenged _ cranium sizes, but we’ll play by the simplified regulations set forth by the Honda accord.” 

 

“I swear he just makes shit up,” Pidge mutters under her breath.

 

“Basically---” Coran interrupts. “You simply use the wocket to volley the kerfiffle over the net. Out of bounds,” he motions to the cones he’s managed to set up denoting the court, “Or if a player fails to volley the kerfiffle to the other side---that’s a point for the opposite team.” 

 

“It’s just badminton,” Pidge mutters again. Coran ignores her. 

 

“So now, if you’ll look here,” Coran unfolds a large piece of paper from seemingly nowhere, “I’ve already taken the liberty of pairing you off and throwing together a quick bracket for the First Decaphoebial Atlas Tifflewiffle Tournament. FDATT, for short. Keith, we’ll start with you. You’ll be with---” 

 

“Lance.” Keith crosses his arms. “If we’re doing this, then Lance and I are a team.” 

 

“Wha--me?” Lance looks around. “Really?” 

 

“Yeah.” Keith says. Everyone is looking at him for an explanation so he shifts his weight to the other side, and explains: “Really.” 

 

Coran scribbles over a few lines of his tournament bracket. “Works for me!” 

 

“If Keith gets to choose his partner, then I want to be with Axca!” Veronica raises her hand. 

 

“Ronnie,” Lance shakes his head. “You can’t just choose. You’ll throw off the whole bracket!!” 

 

“Then why can he chose you?” She shoots Keith an accusing glare before turning back to Lance. 

 

“Keith is, like,” Lance waves his hands, “The leader!! Okay!! He’s special!” 

 

Keith raises his eyebrows. 

 

Veronica is less than convinced: “And I’m not?!” 

 

“No!!” 

 

(Axca’s face is entirely blank during this heated exchange between the McClains. She really couldn’t care less.) 

 

After a fair amount of bickering---Axca ends up being teammates with Romelle and Veronica gets paired off with a guy from the bridge whom Keith doesn’t know---the teams are finally made. 

 

Coran booms: “Now everyone select your wockets, and let the tournament begin!!” 

 

_ “Wocket, _ ” Keith mouths under his breath, puzzling over the selection. Beside him, Lance chokes out a laugh. 

 

Shiro might have been a safer bet than Lance as a partner, but he’s manning the bridge for now, as he usually does during the day. And Allura is also working the bridge, which is probably why Lance didn’t put up a fight when Keith said his name. But Keith and Lance have trained and fought and  _ lived _ alongside each other for what feels like a lifetime. So whether it’s a battlefield or badminton (or, uh, tifflewiffle)...Keith  _ knows _ that Lance will have his back. 

 

“Okay Keitharino,” In preparation for the first match, Lance is pulling his arms up over his head in a stretch, then bending over to touch his toes. (Keith pointedly looks away.) “What’s our strategy?”

 

Across the net, a couple of confused looking crewhands are staring at their wockets like they’ve never taken part in an alien sporting event before (to be fair, they probably haven’t). 

 

“We win.” Keith says, swinging the wocket to get a feel for it. 

 

“Sounds like a plan, man,” Lance grins at him, positively wolfish, before holding out a hand for a fist bump. Keith obliges. 

 

And. 

 

Turns out, Keith was right to chose Lance. They are  _ good  _ at tifflewiffle. 

 

Very good. 

 

Stupidly good.  

 

Lance covers the back half of the court and Keith takes the front. They move in perfect, wordless rhythm---each serve from Lance sending the kerfiffle zinging on to the other side. If their opponents manage to bumble it back over to their side, Keith is  _ merciless _ with the return, spiking it back to their opponents with single-minded determination. 

 

They  _ dominate _ their first match. The poor crew members they’re playing against never stood a chance. It’s point after point after point---to the point where Keith almost feels sorry for them. Almost. 

 

When Leifsdottir blows the whistle signalling the end of the match, and finally putting their opponents out of their misery, Lance whoops with joy at the scoreboard. It’s a stunning 108-0, in favor of the Black and Red Paladins. 

 

“Shit, Keith,” Lance is springing on the balls of his feet, eyes alight with the triumph of victory. “We oughta take this show on the road.” 

 

“There’s no road, Lance,” Keith says, tilting his head, like,  _ follow me. _ He leads them off the court so that the next match can begin. 

 

“No, I’m just saying,” Lance has his hands out in front of him, describing the scene as he imagines it. “If this whole ‘saving-the-universe’ thing doesn’t work out, I think we have a future together in wiffletiffle. Kerfiffle. Whatever.” 

 

Keith makes a noncommittal noise. It’s incredibly absurd, but he pictures, just for a minute, traveling the universe with Lance....as  professional tifflewiffle players. It’s such a ridiculous image, he can’t help but snort out a laugh. “Sure.” 

 

The next match begins. This time it’s Kinkade and Griffin against a couple of the engine room staff. The engine guys are big, but Kinkade and Griffin soon take an obvious lead. 

 

“Oh, they’re good.” Lance breathes, squeezing a water bottle tight as he watches the volley. 

 

Keith takes note of Kinkade’s handle of the game and Griffin’s tight, methodical footwork. They’re good...but they aren’t nearly in sync. “We’re better,” he tells Lance. 

 

“Hell yeah we are,” Lance says, eyes on the game. 

 

He’s got just the slightest sheen of perspiration over his temples, matting down his floofy hair into almost curls. His uniform jacket has been thrown to the side, leaving just the black undershirt. Lance pulls at the collar, waving it to fan himself, drawing attention to his slim fingers, broad palms, the sharp angle of his jaw. 

 

Keith turns his eyes back to the game. Griffin and Kinkade win, bringing the score to Voltron: one, MFE: one. 

 

The next match features Pidge and Hunk against Rizavi and a timid girl who definitely doesn’t deserve to be paired with her. Soon enough, both Keith and Lance are on their feet, shouting: 

 

“Pidge!! Pidge! Go in for the kill!!!! That’s it!! That’s---No---YES!!!!!” 

 

“Hunk! You got this, keep your focus, yeah!” 

 

“Don’t let ‘em see you hesitate, big guy!” 

 

“Knock that sniffle---”

 

“---Lance, it’s called a kerfiffle---” 

 

“KNOCK THAT KERFIFFLE OUT OF THE PARK, BABY!!!!” 

 

It’s a close match, but in the end, Pidge and Hunk win. Lance runs onto the court as soon as the whistle sounds, earning him a couple of displeased shouts from the MFE side of the hall. He ignores them in favor of high-fiving Pidge and doing his best to lift Hunk off the ground with a victory screech. (He manages a couple of inches). 

 

A few matches later, and Keith and Lance are back on the court. 

 

“So that’s what, MFE pilots: five, Voltron: four?” Veronica sneers over the net at her brother. 

 

Lance ignores her. They’ll be fixing the score soon enough. “Okay Keith,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Eye of the tiger.” 

 

“What does that mean?” 

 

“It means don’t embarrass me,” Lance says, swinging his wocket around like a baseball ball. 

 

“You’ll do that just fine on your own,” Veronica calls. 

 

“Love you too, sis!!” Lance says, giving her the middle finger. 

 

Keith tosses his wocket from hand to hand. He lowers his voice and squeezes the handle tight: “Lance. Let’s slaughter them.” 

 

“My thoughts exactly, Keithy boy,” Lance smiles, all canines. He tosses Keith the kerfiffle, which Keith catches without a thought, backing up to serve. The whistle sounds and he flicks it into the air and takes aim----

 

It’s a close match. The guy Veronica is paired with---his name is Ludd or Ledd or something---is surprisingly fast. And Veronica is definitely Lance’s sister; she’s shrewd and strategic---all feints and barely-in-bounds scores and fast, trash-talking mouth. 

 

But Keith and Lance have fought back-to-back against entire Galran infantries. Keith knows his every tell, from the way that his mouth slants and his eyebrows quirk, the way his shoulders settle before he takes a shot, the length of his strides, the span of his hands, the color of his eyes----

 

\---not that the color of his eyes makes a difference when playing tifflewiffle---

 

\---okay the point is: Keith knows Lance. And Lance knows him just as well. And honestly? Regardless of who they’re playing, the other team doesn’t stand a chance. 

 

It’s not as one-sided as their previous match, but they gain a lead in the second half and after that, there’s no stopping them. The game ends as a victory for Team Voltron. 

 

*

 

The tournament continues on, and Lance and Keith slowly make their way through the bracket.

 

Hunk and Pidge are close behind in number of wins, but they are eventually bested by Team Kinkade-Griffin. And finally. It’s the last match. 

 

“Avenge us!!” Hunk calls on to the court, dramatic, as Lance and Keith get ready to face off against the MFE pilots. 

 

Lance waves back, “Don’t worry, buddy! Piece of cake! Slice of pie! Can of corn!!” 

 

Across the net, Kinkade and Griffin exchange a look. Kinkade cracks his knuckles. 

 

“You really think it’ll be that easy, McClain?” Griffin asks, bullish as always. He has a look on his face like he swallowed a whole lemon. 

 

“Oh, do you hear that?” Lance makes like he’s answering a phone. He has one hand up to his ear, head tilted like he’s listening. “It’s for you,” Lance tells James with great seriousness, hand outstretched like he’s passing Griffin the phone. “It’s Jonathan Taylor Thomas. He says he’d like his hairstyle back.” 

 

Griffin doesn’t seem amused. He tosses his head, flicking his tragic bangs across his forehead. “Not sure I’ll be taking any life advice from a cargo pilot, actually.” 

 

Which makes Keith’s blood boil. But he bites back his temper and instead motions Lance closer, fake whispering: “Lance, don’t you know that you have to be gentle with Honors students? They get spooked easily if things aren’t color coded and clearly rubric’d.” Keith coos at Griffin: “James, be a nice boy and I’ll make sure you get lots of extra credit later.” 

 

And Lance absolutely  _ cackles _ . It’s a real laugh---open mouthed, one that makes his shoulders shake---maybe the first one from him that Keith has ever managed to elicit. He presses his lips together, trying to avoid grinning like an idiot, he feels so ridiculously smug about it. 

 

“Fuck you, Kogane,” Griffin says, face red. It’s followed by a barely audible, under-his-breath: “Dropout.” 

 

“Hey Griffin,” Lance shifts, smile no longer friendly, and positions himself between Keith and James. He continues, cheerful and sweet: “Say that again and I’ll shove this entire racket down your goddamn throat.” 

 

“I didn’t---” 

 

A resounding crack echos through the gym as Coran claps his hands together. “Now, now pilots!! All disputes will be settled like honorable gentlemen: with tifflewiffle!!!” 

 

There’s a sizable crowd around the court by this point. A couple people even have signs. The crew of the Atlas doesn’t do anything halfway. 

 

“Wocket,” Keith tells Lance as the crowd settles and they wait for the match to begin. 

 

“Huh?” 

 

Keith waves his wocket around. “It’s not a ‘racket’...it’s called a wocket.” He holds it up for emphasis, like,  _ see _ . 

 

“Keith…” Lance trails off, mouth oddly drawn. More than a smile. He shakes his head. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Hey,” out of nowhere, Lance gets a little bit quiet. Maybe he doesn’t even mean for Keith to hear. “Hey, Keith, why’d you chose me?”  He tilts his head, but he doesn’t look at Keith as they get into position. Across the net, Griffin and Kinkade square up. 

 

Keith could say a lot of things. He could say,  _ Because even though we’re closer than we’ve ever been, it still feels too far. _ Or he could try,  _ Because whether it’s something stupid or something important, I know I can depend on you. _  Or maybe just.  _ I wanted to. With you.  _

 

Keith shrugs. “I don’t like to lose.” 

 

And that must have been the right thing to say because the tightness falls out of Lance’s expression. He preens. He’s all genuine, vivid smile, the tone of his voice rich and full and happy: “You made the right decision then, man. Let’s do this thing.” 

 

Keith rolls his shoulders and grins at Lance. He holds his wocket out and Lance clacks his own against it. 

 

Leifsdottir blows the whistle. 

 

*

 

“A lovely, lovely rally we’re seeing folks---just!! No---ah, there he did get it! Beautiful save from Kinkade there, always knew that boy had a good head on his shoulders. When I first met him, that’s what I said, ‘you’ve got a good,’ oh--” Coran’s running commentary pauses for a moment as the kerfiffle floats through the air. 

 

Keith tracks it across the net. His boots squeak as he rushes to the side----no, it’s out. He lets the kerfiffle fall. It’s close to the line.  

 

“A misstep from our own Kogane??” Coran is not so sure.  

 

The volume at the sidelines is wild---half in celebration, half in contention. 

 

“It was out!!” Lance argues, shouting over the noise, waving his wocket at Coran. “It was out by a mile!!” 

 

“It was out,” Keith agrees, dragging his forearm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. 

 

Iverson drops one hand. 

 

“The ref has spoken----a point to the MFE pilots, then!” 

 

Griffin raises his arms in triumph and Kinkade nods as the crowd roars. 

 

“Why is Iverson the referee, dude only has one eye!!!?!” Lance is shouting. Iverson is unimpressed. “This is bias!!! BIAS! Can I get a playback!!? Hello?? Helllll---oooo??” 

 

Kinkade shakes his head and moves to serve the kerfiffle, even while Lance is still muttering under his breath about officiating bias. From the sidelines, Keith can hear Pidge ranting above the other noise---she’s absolutely livid. 

 

Kinkade tosses the kerfiffle, serving an elegant, perfect shot. Keith jumps to smash it back at the arc’s highest angle, flicking his wrist to give it a slight spin as it rockets back. 

 

“Oh ho ho, we’ve got an aggressive volley going now---don’t think Keith will be making any more mistakes---” 

 

Keith and Lance both shoot Coran a nasty look, narrowly avoiding colliding to return the kerfiffle---

 

“Victory or death, that’s what they say, anyways, although---oh excellent driving shot from Griffin---coupla decaphoebs in the quantum abyss certainly did mellow Keith out, I’d say---WHATTA LOB FROM LANCE FOLKS-----”

 

The kerfiffle soars across the court and neither Kinkade nor Griffin is fast enough to predict it. It hits the ground and the crowd goes wild. 

 

Keith clenches his fist,  _ yessss.  _ This point pulls he and Lance back in the lead. Lance dances around, cheering, and Keith can’t help but laugh. There’s just no way this would be as fun with anyone else. 

 

The game continues, neck and neck. The world narrows until even Coran’s voice is just background noise---it’s only Keith and Lance, the sound of their boots on the floor, the  _ whish _ of the wockets through the air, the timber of his breath as he calls Keith’s name, the mutual understanding as they move together, perfect at each other’s sides. 

 

“Just ticks left on the clock my friends---” Coran warns as the game comes to a close. The score is tied and the back and forth between the two sides is not letting up. 

 

The volley continues, the clock dwindles----and then: 

 

Keith hits the kerfiffle just so---returning it faster than Griffin anticipated---he misses it and Keith holds his breath---it looks like a score. But Kinkade is there, ready, and flicks it over the net. Just barely over the net. 

 

Keith, not about to lose, lunges forward, diving----he manages to hit the kerfiffle with the furthest edge of his wocket, popping it up over the net again. And he meets Griffin’s eyes and Griffin must think they’ve won now----because Keith is close to the net and Lance is center court. He  _ slams _ it across the net----fully behind both of them. 

 

“Lance!!” Keith calls out, seeing it before his partner can---

 

And Lance knows exactly what Keith means. His head leaned back, tracking the kerfiffle, he’s already there, ready, in position. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders square the way they do before he makes the shot---Keith has seen this stance before, a hundred times. Lance doesn’t take shots he can’t make, and he never lets Keith down---he hits the kerfiffle back to the other team in a perfect arc. 

 

The time is up and the kerfiffle falls cleanly to the floor between Kinkade and Griffin. 

 

It’s a win for Keith and Lance. 

 

The crowd is screaming and Coran is blabbing and Keith is breathing deep, chest heaving. He looks over and Lance shoots him a finger gun, and mouths the word  _ sharpshooter.  _

 

Keith nods, caught between Hunk and Veronica (who definitely switched allegiances to her brother’s side after losing against him). He smiles, helpless against the warm feeling that’s making his cheeks sore and his heartbeat stutter. 

 

“Good game, guys,” Shiro congratulates the team. Evidently he’s not needed on the bridge at the moment. (More like he escaped as soon as he got the chance when he heard what was happening). Allura is close to Shiro, giving her own compliments to the teams. 

 

“Allura!!” Lance bounds over to her. “When’d you get here!” 

 

She smiles at his enthusiasm. “I missed the first half entirely, I’m afraid. But I saw more than enough to---” She  _ eeps _ as Lance gathers her up into a hug and swings her around. “Darling! Dar--Lance! You’re all sweaty!” 

 

“You love it!” Lance blows a raspberry onto her cheek. 

 

Allura (who Keith knows for a fact is strong enough to throw  _ three  _ Lances clear across the room) wilts in his arms. She gives Keith and Shiro a sheepish look over Lance’s shoulder but she doesn’t deny anything. “I certainly hope the next thing on the agenda is a shower. You smell like a Pegulian nussertock!” 

 

Lance lets her down. “Alright, alright.” 

 

He lets her down and turns to Keith. “Hey man,” 

 

Keith braces for a victory hug, or at the very least Lance slinging an arm around his shoulder, crowing in his ear. It never comes. 

 

Instead, Lance sticks out his hand. “Really good game, Keith.” 

 

Keith shakes it, feeling for all the world like this just isn’t...it just isn’t  _ how it should be.  _

 

“Yeah,” Keith says, maybe hanging onto his palm a bit longer than he should. “Good game.” 

 

Lance smiles up at him, eyes crinkled around the edges, bright and happy---brilliantly happy---with Allura at his side. And Keith. 

 

Keith thinks that this is the way things are. Even if it’s  _ different  _ than he thought it would be. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. The next chapter (apprehensive smile)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deep breaths everyone, we’re getting through the end of canon, so hold on to your space helmets   
> (this is a double update, so please click to the next chapter when you’re done with this one!! There wont be a note at the end because I want everything to flow smoothly)

 

***

 

_ Outside of time, distinct from any one reality.  _

 

Life doesn’t always afford one the blessing of saying goodbye. 

 

Death can be cruel and swift. The morning his father died, Keith ate Froot Loops out of his second favorite cereal bowl. His favorite bowl---the special one with the purple hippos dancing all along the rim---was in the sink with the other dirty dishes. His dad was in the kitchen, talking to Keith between sips of coffee while he packed lunches for them both. Leftovers for him, probably, but a sandwich and carrot sticks for Keith. Because carrot sticks are a good-for-you food and Keith wants to grow up big and strong to save people, like his dad. There’s cookies too, just the store bought kind, but they taste good. They’re included in his lunchbox because his dad has a sweet tooth, and buying them for Keith gives him an excuse to have them around the house. Cartoons were playing on the television and Keith can remember the way his dad laughed at all the jokes. Louder than him, even. 

 

They must have said goodbye; Keith left for school, afterall, and his father was beginning a shift at the station that afternoon. But Keith doesn’t remember it. It wasn’t a real goodbye. Death wasn’t on the horizon---there was no slow descent, no wash of color warning in the sky, no gentle ebb of light into darkness. It was pitch black without reason, unexpected and unfair. They weren’t allowed their final words.  

 

There’s other ways, though, to not say goodbye. Too often, people drift apart, not for any reason, exactly, but just because. Sometimes it’s not a drift; sometimes they are torn apart---by other people, bad circumstances, money, strife. And how is one to know which small conversation, which quick message, which casual wave---how can one know which of these will be the last, which of these should have been goodbye? Keith learned, growing older, that the drifting, the not-quite-friends-anymore, the shift from close to acquaintances to nothing, the loss---those kinds of missed goodbyes are painful too. 

 

(You can avoid them, though, if you never quite get close to people in the first place. No goodbyes exist without the first hello.) 

 

(Keith has spent a long time trying to unlearn that. He’s gotten better at the hello part, the becoming close part, the letting people in part.) 

 

Life doesn’t always afford one the blessing of saying goodbye. 

 

Teachers who were kind to him, other kids moving throughout the system, more recently, his fellow Blade members, people in the coalition who gave their lives for the cause----so many goodbyes that weren’t allowed. 

 

But. Maybe life, maybe the universe, maybe someone or something greater than Keith----maybe it knew what he didn’t. Maybe there was a reason for all those missed goodbyes. Maybe, in not saying goodbye, there was a kindness at work that Keith didn’t understand. 

 

Because this. This is too hard. 

 

Allura is trying her very best not to cry. He can see it in the way her lips are turned down at the edges, quivering slightly when she doesn’t have them pressed together. Her hands are in fists at her sides, but before she clenched them, they were shaking. Her breaths are short, words tumbling out in bursts. 

 

She pulls Keith close, but the embrace is brief. Just a suggestion of her floral perfume, a brush of her lips against his cheek. There’s not enough time. This is goodbye. Irrevocable, ultimate, unforgiving. There would never be enough time. She presses his hand before moving away. Raises her eyes to meet his for the last time. 

 

The tears in her eyes spill over when she gets to Lance. 

 

Lance is crying as well, silent, despairing tears that began as soon as they realized what Allura meant when she faced them, saying, “Your paths go on; mine ends here.” 

 

Lance brushes a bit of hair behind her ear, thumbs over her temple with gentlest touch, maybe not even aware that he’s doing it. His forehead is pressed to hers, everyone else forgotten. He’s begging, pleading, cheeks wet with tears: “Allura,” his voice cracks, 

 

Keith feels sick, 

 

“Please, Allura. There must be another---you can’t---you’re too important,” 

 

Keith’s stomach turns and he squeezes his eyes shut. They deserve better than this. They deserve more---a moment alone, at least. It’s not fair that their happiness is being stripped away. It’s not fair that this last exchange is abrupt and public and to save every other soul in the cosmos. This is absurd. This is unfair. 

 

She turns away, attempting to drop Lance’s hand. He teeters forward, as if to say,  _ no, not alone, never alone, I’m coming with you--- _

 

Keith doesn’t know if it’s through their bond, or just because he knows Lance, but Keith can feel the absolute truth of that sentiment. It takes everything in Keith to resist the urge to grab him, to hold him back. Because Lance would follow her. He will. He’s going to---

 

Allura pauses, perhaps steeling herself. Maybe, for just a moment, she’s considering being selfish, refusing this terrible role. Maybe she’s fully realizing the burden of what she is about to do. Maybe she just wanted one more second with him. 

 

She straightens her back tall. She’s afraid, but she’s strong. Strong enough to do this for them, for everyone. She leaves Lance and Keith and Shiro and Hunk and Pidge behind. She moves forward. 

 

Keith is close enough to him to hear the small sound that Lance makes at the loss of her touch. Almost a whimper. It hurts. It hurts to say goodbye.  

 

She fades into brightness. Ancient, infinite light overtakes the senses as innumerable worlds rise again out of the dark. Keith can feel heartbreak five times over, both within himself and not, like something deep in their chests has been ripped away.  

 

***


	15. Chapter 15

 

***

 

_Common room, Deck B, above the hangars housing the lions, USS Atlas, approaching New Altea, Lunsina System, Leo Galaxy._

 

“Iverson.” Shiro is already in communication with the bridge when Keith joins the others after docking the black lion. “Perform shipwide standard protocol…” Shiro stumbles over the words, the falter in his voice betraying emotion, “...standard protocol…” He closes his eyes. “Make sure everyone is alright. I’ll check in again shortly. The bridge is yours.” He ends the call.

 

Shiro collapses onto a couch opposite Pidge and Hunk. He folds into himself, elbows on knees, head in his human hand, covering his eyes, his artificial hand clenched into a fist over his knee. His shoulders shake.

 

Pidge is crying too, curled into Hunk. He has her tucked into his side, her face buried against his chest. He looks up when Keith comes into the room. “Lance…?”

 

Keith shakes his head. He went to the red lion as soon as they were inside the Atlas again, but Lance was already gone. Red is the fastest, afterall. She got him back quickly enough for him to slip away alone.

 

“He…” Hunk starts, but pauses when the door opens behind Keith. “Coran.”

 

Coran is out of breath like he was running to find them. There’s a desperation in his eyes when they meet Keith’s: _please. Please tell me the worst isn’t true._

 

Keith’s mouth is dry. He shakes his head, opens his mouth, but the words don’t come. Beside him, Shiro rises to his feet. He is also at a loss.

 

Pidge crosses the room, the space between Shiro and Keith, to stand in front of Coran. She wraps her arms around his waist. Her voice comes out tear-strained. “I’m sorry.”

 

Coran, always so spirited, so boisterous, so belligerently loud---he bends towards her, holding her tight as grief washes over him like a wave. He rocks in place, unsteady in his sorrow. He suddenly looks very old; many years settle over his features in a moment’s time. Shiro guides them to the couch.

 

Coran swallows, collecting himself. “You all...the finest heros…” He pauses, rephrasing, the words coming difficult. “The truest friends…” He trails off, unable to finish, breaking down. Hunk squeezes his hand. Shiro has a hand on his shoulder, but he’s looking heavenward, breathing out heavy sobs. Pidge hugs him, face hidden.

 

Keith is clenching his jaw so hard it aches.

 

This doesn’t feel like a victory.

 

“Captain.” Sam Holt notifies them from the bridge.

 

When Shiro doesn’t respond, his voice is a little gentler: “Shiro. The planet is hailing us. Do you want to initiate contact?”

 

Shiro blinks. He clears his throat. “Do we---will we be permitted to regroup here?”

 

Everyone unwittingly looks to Coran. They have no one else to ask.

 

“Altea would never close her doors on any people seeking peace.” Coran’s voice is quiet but sure.

 

How does a society ruined and brought back to life react to outsiders? Will they be taken as enemies? Will their story, fantastic as it is, be believed? The tension in the room heightens. They’ve lost too much today. They’ve been so fully connected through their bond, that Keith can feel it, even without their lions, even above the grief, heavy and viscous---Shiro’s exhausted caution, Pidge’s sharp skepticism, Hunk’s trilling fear. No more fighting. Not today. They can’t.

 

“Patch me in.” Keith makes the decision. The last dregs of adrenaline floating through his veins clear his head. He stands up straight, in front of the screen, his friends behind him.

 

The call connects and Keith is faced with a woman who looks remarkably like Allura. He balks at the sight of her, breath catching in his chest for a moment. But, no. Her skintone is not as deep, her eyes aren’t the same. She speaks and her voice is not Allura’s regal lilt:

 

“This is the Altean Planetary Defense Instrumentation. You are approaching orbit in what appears to be a Class A warship. You have provided no identification, nor justification for your approach, as is required per United Systems Article 11, subsection 15-9. State your purpose.”

 

“My name is Keith.” Keith wets his lips, eyes fluttering as he works out exactly what to say. “I am the paladin of the black lion and the leader of Voltron. We bear no ill will towards the people of Altea. We come in peace.”

 

At the mention of Voltron, the other people in the room start to whisper. The woman who first addressed Keith looks startled, her militaristic tone dropping entirely. “Voltron?”

 

Keith nods. “We can explain, but we have fought a hard-won battle and suffered great loss. Are we welcome to land and regroup here?”

 

The woman lifts her chin, respectful and proud all at once. “Altea would never close her doors on any people seeking peace.” Her eyes flick to the obviously distraught group behind him before meeting his. “You are welcome here.”

 

*

 

The Atlas lands.

 

The next forty-eight hours pass in a blur. Keith must sleep, at some point, but the exhaustion he feels isn’t physical so it doesn’t mean much. He must eat, though he couldn’t say what. He helps when and where he’s needed. He contacts the Blade, though the communication is brief. He feels numb.

 

He still hasn’t seen Lance.

 

The Alteans are gracious hosts first and skilled diplomats second. He meets with them and they accept his abridged story with little mistrust, seeming to understand the subdued spirits of Keith and the other pilots without words. They are kind to the crew of the Atlas, giving them a warm welcome into the very heart of the royal city. Keith stays on board the ship. Shiro, Hunk, and Pidge all stay as well. None of them want to be apart, not for long, not yet.

 

“Keith,” Hunk’s voice rouses Keith as if from a dream.

 

He has his mother’s knife in his hand, idly turning it over, switching it back and forth between his palms the way he does when he’s lost in thought. “Hm?”

 

Hunk’s face is pinched with nerves, his eyes are red-rimmed, his skin sallow. He has a plate in his hands. The food looks far from fresh, but wholly untouched. “Lance. This is the third meal I’ve taken him, but he hasn’t eaten anything. Since. Y’know.” Hunk’s mouth wobbles like he might start to cry, but he holds his breath for a moment, letting it out in a big heave. “He won’t talk to me. I’m worried, man. I don’t know what to do.”

 

“You want me to talk to him.”

 

Hunk nods, relieved. “I’m worried about him,” he repeats.

 

Keith gets up from the floor of the common room, where’s he’s been sitting. Pidge is asleep on the couch behind him, her small frame curled under a blanket. Her glasses are on the cushion close to her head, and Keith pauses to place them further away, just so that they don’t get broken. Satisfied, he moves to leave. He brushes Hunk’s shoulder on the way out, but he doesn’t say anything. What is there to say?

 

Hunk frowns, lightly catching his arm as he passes. “I’m worried about you too, Keith.”

 

Keith looks up at him. Hunk is honest to a fault, so if he says that, he means it. “Don’t worry about me,” he tells him, feeling like he’s floating through space. Untethered. Numb.

 

Walking through the living quarters of the Atlas feels like walking through a ghost town, now that most of the crew is planetside. It was so lively before, but now everything is still. The tap of Keith’s boots echoes down the empty halls. The secondary lights---main power is being conserved since the ship is docked---hum with crystal generated fluorescence, bathing everything in blue-green.

 

Keith soon is at Lance’s room, which is really not Lance’s room at all. It’s Allura’s. He stops in front of the door. There’s a number on a plaque at the side of the door, room 208. Keith can read it in Allura’s voice, the way she said it that day in the hospital when she came to see him: _“I’ve been assigned room number two-hundred and eight, in the portside quarters on deck---”_

He can hear the way her accent drew out the ‘o’ sounds, see the pout of her mouth when he interrupted her, the way her eyes shimmered as she drew back from his hospital bed, naming him one of her dearest friends.

 

Keith draws in a shuddering breath. Allura’s bright, strong energy, her poise, her unwavering dedication---all excised, cut from their lives with one jagged stroke. She’s really gone. She’s gone and Lance is on the other side of this door, heartsick and mourning.

 

He can’t do this.

 

He’s been trying to hold himself together, for the team, but. This might be his limit. Keith tightens his hands into fists, running a thumb over his knuckles. He tilts his head backwards, eyes searching the ceiling above, trying to find the strength, holding his breath. He squeezes his eyes shut. He _has_ to do this. He has to be there for Lance. Even if Keith is mourning too. Even if...even if it hurts that he isn’t the one whom Lance wants to see.

 

He passes a hand over the entrypad and the door slides open.

 

All the monitors and the shipwide comm channel have been powered down. The room is dark. Cool air pours through the vents in a steady whoosh, making the hair on Keith’s arms stand up with the chill.

 

Keith’s vision adjusts to the dark. Lance is just...sitting. On the bed. But he’s barely sitting there, just barely perched on the edge of the mattress, like with the slightest touch he might sink to the floor in a heap---a puppet severed from its strings, limp. His helmet is on the floor, randomly, like he threw it against the wall and this is how it landed. The breastplate of his armor is also thrown aside, but he’s yet to change out of his undersuit. His arms are hanging lifeless at his sides, head bowed. He doesn’t look up when Keith enters the room.

 

Keith steps inside and the door closes behind him.

 

Lance hunches his shoulders, slowly drawing his hands into his lap, making himself smaller. His face is turned away. Keith’s chest aches.

 

Dark and cold. An accusation from a long time ago repeats in Keith’s mind. Lance’s voice then was harsh and accusing: _“You left. Know why? I do. You. Don’t. Care.”_

 

That wound opens once more, too deep to ever heal for good. For all the times that Keith has depended on Lance, there’s no expectation for him to return the gesture. Keith swallows. The sound of his throat shuttering shut lies heavy in the dark.

 

The silence hangs between them. When he breaks it, Keith’s words comes out just as devastated as he feels, a broken clip of syllables. The words that he should have said before, before Lance was so beaten and hurting and alone:

 

“I care, Lance.”

 

 _About the team. About you._ Keith’s voice cracks and the first tear rolls down his cheek. “I c-care---I care a lot.”

 

Keith has never let himself cry in front of anyone before, not unless he was very small, before the death of his father. Tears are something private, innermost feelings guarded too closely to be shared. But. Now that he’s begun, the tears won’t stop falling. Emotion is choking him, but he forces out the words: “I always---I cared. Even when I left, that wasn’t. It wasn’t because I didn’t---okay? So if---” Keith swipes at his face, a pointless attempt at drying his cheeks. He takes a half-step forward, unwilling to leave, but not sure if he’s allowed to be closer. He feels helpless. “If there’s anything, I can---”  

 

Lance rises to his feet,

 

Keith thinks, at first, that Lance is going to walk right past him, out the door. He’s wrong. Eyes downcast, Lance crosses the room, and mechanically pulls Keith close. He holds Keith, chest to chest, head bowed, arms wrapped tightly around him. He’s shaking.

 

Keith’s arms come around him. He rests one hand on the back of Lance’s neck, nestled just under Lance’s hair. He can feel the slightness of Lance; the vertebrae are delicate under his fingers, as Lance buries his face into Keith. Keith runs a thumb, soothing, on soft skin just behind his ear. “Lance.”

 

Lance chokes out a word. It might be Keith’s name, or an apology that never needs to be said, or something else. It doesn’t matter. Lance is shaking in his arms. Keith holds him tighter.

 

“It’s okay.” Keith gets out. His face is upturned as he holds Lance against his chest, voice thick with emotion. The ceiling swims above him; he blinks the tears out of his eyes. Presses his lips together and swallows. None of this is okay. “It’s okay,” he repeats, useless.

 

Lance gasps out a sob, like a dying breath. He curls closer, bunching his hands in Keith’s shirt, breaking. He sobs again. And again. He’s clinging to Keith, crying with anguish uninhibited, crying like a child cries. Loud and wet and hot, face pressed into Keith’s neck, holding him like he’s all Lance has. The sound of it is terrible, grief raw and unfiltered; it marks Keith down to his very core. There’s something so very human about the way they are together here, Keith’s response is almost instinctual. Keith comforts him without a thought, just a hand running up and down Lance’s back, the other heavy at the base of his skull, anchoring him close. There’s no language for this; the low murmurs Keith proposes against Lance’s hair don’t mean anything except to say, _I’m here. This hurts. I’m sorry._

 

They stay like that. Lance cries himself into exhaustion. His grip loosens out of Keith’s shirt. He sways on his feet.

 

Keith directs him backwards to the bed. Lance shakes his head against Keith’s shoulder.

 

Keith pauses, hands coming to a stop on his back. “You need to sleep,” he argues, tone soft, lips all but pressed against his temple. Sleep won’t change anything that’s happened, but Lance is so worn out right now, he can hardly stand.

 

Lance withdraws from Keith’s arms, leaving them unbearably empty. Keith wants to draw him back in again, pull him close. His hands drop to his sides.

 

“Yeah,” Lance says, nodding, miserable. He exhales and it becomes a sob. As if in shame, his hands come up over his face and he sinks to the bed, doubling over, body wracked as he tries to quiet his crying.

 

Keith sits beside him, pulling him close again with an arm around his shoulders. He clears his throat. “I’ll stay. If it’ll help?”

 

Lance nods. Even in the low light, Keith can see the way he winces, a crease between his brows, the newly minted Altean marks on his cheeks standing out like spotlights, wet with tears. He looks away. The hesitation isn’t lost on Keith, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t fathom leaving Lance alone. Not right now. Keith eases him backwards, kicking off his own boots to join him in the bed. He lays on his back and pulls Lance roughly against him, to pillow his head against Keith’s chest.

 

Lance slowly relaxes, going docile against him as the tension unwinds from his body. Keith takes care not to jostle him, but runs a light hand over his head, resting finally between his shoulder blades. The frantic drum of Keith’s heartbeat also starts to lull. He’s committed to staying as long as Lance needs someone. He tries to get comfortable. He breathes deep.

 

The sheets smell like Allura.

 

Her unmistakable perfume. Keith bites his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut. This is not his place. Lance is not his to hold. Everything is wrong. He lays there, in Lance and Allura’s bed, with Lance’s warm weight against him, breathing softly in time, and the thought rises with terrible, horrific clarity: _I wanted this._

 

Tears start fresh from his eyes. Keith lifts his hand off Lance’s back and wipes them away. He argues with himself: _not this. Never like this. I would have never wished for this._

 

But he can’t deny anymore, how right Lance feels in his arms. He can’t lie to himself about how much he’s craved closeness, but now that he has it...

 

“Thanks for staying.” Lance’s voice is soft. It’s shallow, still tear-filled, but he’s too worn to cry in the way that he was before.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Keith responds. He doesn’t intend to say more. He doesn’t intend to ever voice those thoughts out loud. He would never ask for more than this.

 

He can feel Lance smile against him. It’s a weak smile, no doubt, but still, the pull of his lips, the rise of his cheeks against Keith’s chest is an unmistakable feeling. “Don’t believe what the people are saying. Keith Kogane isn’t such a bad guy.”

 

“Depends on who you ask,” Keith asserts weakly. He can’t do this. Guilt and bitterness and love and grief all swirl together in his chest. He is drowning in it. There is no sign of land.

 

Keith listens to the rise and fall of Lance’s breaths. They grow less haggard as the tears quiet, until Keith would swear that Lance is asleep. He lets out a sigh.

 

“I should’ve done more.” Lance whispers against him, pulling Keith out of his thoughts.

 

Keith shakes his head as soon as the words register, “Lance--”

 

“No. I know it’s true. I should’ve---Keith. There must have been another way. I told her.” Lance is crying now, again, but it’s not like before. It’s quiet. Heartbroken. “I told her I would be her future. But when she needed me, I failed her.”

 

Keith tightens his grip on Lance, almost too tight. He’s thinking of how Allura looked at Lance, the adoration in her eyes. How she took comfort in just his presence alone. How _happy_ she was in the past few months. “Lance. Don’t do this.”

 

Lance breaths in a wet breath, barely holding himself together. “I just keep thinking---”

 

“Lance.” Keith says, his voice sharp. “Stop.” He loosens his grip, suddenly aware of how tight he’s been holding Lance’s arm. He doesn’t want to fight. But...Lance has to understand how untrue that is. “You---” Keith searches for the words. “You were there for her. You two were close, even through rough times.” Keith thinks of that night with Allura and Lance in the kitchen. He swallows. He thinks of Lance staying with him the night he left for the Blades. “I know how much that means. To have a person like that.”

 

Lance is silent.

 

“And,” Keith continues, his voice hoarse, “Allura made a decision that no one should ever have to make.” He thinks of Naxela, of how ready he was to exchange his life for theirs. He’d still do the same today, there’s no doubt in his mind. “But _she_ made the decision. If you failed, then we all did.”

 

“She wouldn’t want us to think of it like that.” Lance says. His tone is hollow. He doesn’t quite believe the words. The sentiment borders on trite, but it’s what he has for comfort.

 

He must eventually fall asleep because he doesn’t say anything more.

 

*

 

Keith wakes when he feels Lance untangle himself from where their bodies have twined together. Lance sits up, just barely conscious and Keith catches it---for a  moment, as his mind shuffles between sleepfulness and waking, Lance doesn’t quite remember.

 

His voice is raw from crying and his eyes are still puffy as he looks down at Keith in his bed.

 

“Keith?” He’s groggy and confused.

 

And then he remembers.

 

His breath hitches and he closes his eyes and Keith wants to go back---he selfishly wants to go back. To let Lance live in that moment without the pain and the heartache. Let him linger there a little longer.

 

Keith sits up, drawing a little further away.

 

“You stayed.” Lance says.

 

“I did.” Keith says, getting up. _I always would. Tell me I can. Tell me what to do to make this better. So your voice doesn’t sound like this, so you don’t look like this, so you don’t feel this way. Anything. I would do it._

 

Lance is quieter than he should be. He draws in one shaky breath and thanks Keith with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Keith hates it. He hates leaving, even with the promise of returning later. He hates that Lance doesn’t ask him for anything, just lets him go.

 

*

 

Unconcerned with the plight of any one individual, time moves relentlessly on. Days become weeks which turn into months as the universe slowly settles into her new order.

 

Altea is a stunning world---a crossroads for many cultures, with libraries and museums rivaling any others in existence, cutting edge technology, and so much natural beauty. The galaxies are richer for its continuation. It’s a fitting place to begin a journey of peace.

 

Keith still spends most of his time on the ship.

 

He uses the back end of a pen to scratch at the forehead under his bangs and frowns at the notes in his hand for the tenth time this hour. He’s in a meeting room, waiting for the others to arrive and figured he would catch up on some of the intel the Blade has been gathering.

 

Krolia had joined the Atlas directly following their last battle, but now she and Kolivan and the other Blades are headed for Daibazaal. The empire is largely divided and it will take a long time to heal, but a strong leader would help. They’re working on it.

 

He trusts his mother to handle the situation and also keep him updated. That’s not the reason for his frown. One of the younger Blade members, Laav, sent him a private message about her homeworld. She’s half, like Keith, and her planet is suffering greatly now that the Empire has withdrawn. The Blades are spread thin right now, but Keith himself could go there. Even if it was just to do some manual labor, he could help rebuild…

 

“Keith. You’re here early.”

 

“Shiro.” Keith looks up and smiles. “You know, the meeting isn’t supposed to start for another half-varga. That makes you early too.”

 

Shiro shrugs, pulling out a chair next to Keith. “It’s an E block schedule today.”

 

Keith winces. E block is the only schedule that puts Slav on the bridge. “I’m sorry.”

 

“After successfully mending the fabric of spacetime and restoring several lost worlds, you’d think he would,” Shiro clenches his fist, “just _shut up_. But no.” He slumps onto the table. “Today he was shouting about the way Veronica parted her hair. I had to leave.”

 

Keith laughs.

 

“Glad my pain brings you such joy,” Shiro deadpans.

 

“It could be worse,” Keith sets down the datapad and stretches his arms above his head. His back gives a satisfying crack.

 

“Death would be sweeter.” Shiro disagrees.

 

They fall into easy, casual conversation. Keith asks Shiro his opinion about helping Laav’s planet. Shiro has always been a good listener, and he makes a few points Keith overlooked. Keith jots them down, happy to have his input.

 

Pidge comes in a few minutes before the meeting, Altean coffee in one hand and her trusty laptop folded under her other arm.

 

“You nerds excited about the weekly progress update or something?” she asks, pulling up a few data screens around the meeting table.

 

“E block schedule,” Keith explains.

 

“Yikes,” Pidge makes a face. “Well, if all else fails, you could always---”

 

“Hey,” Hunk pokes his head into the room. “Anybody seen Lance? I told him I would wait for him so we could come to the meeting together, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

 

“He probably lost track of time again,” Shiro says, carefully. He lets out a breath which is not quite a sigh. “I reminded him last night, but…”

 

“He missed last week’s meeting too,” Pidge’s voice is soft. She’s hurt.

 

Keith studies the table, feeling the way the mood in the room has shifted. Lately, Lance has fallen into the habit of disappearing for long stretches of time. He takes the red lion, far into deep space, and just...searches.

 

“I can call him,” Pidge offers, readying the comm.

 

Hunk shakes his head. “He won’t pick up.”

 

Shiro reaches over and minimizes the comm, giving Pidge an understanding look. “Everyone deals with things in their own way. If this is how Lance is grieving right now, we need to respect that.” He frowns. “But, I agree. I just don’t know what he thinks he’s going to find.”

 

Keith clears his throat. His friends look to him, probably surprised. The past few weeks, he hasn’t weighed in on anything to do with Lance. If they have speculations as to why, they’ve never mentioned them. But the truth is, he just finds it too painful to discuss lightly.

 

“When Shiro was lost,” Keith begins, making an effort to keep his voice steady, “there were some days where searching for him was the only thing that kept me going.” He swallows. “The searching was all I had.”

 

Beside him, Keith can feel the way Shiro is shifting to turn in his seat. His voice is thready. “And I’m so grateful that you kept up that search, Keith,”

 

Keith nods, looking at him for a moment. He’s grateful he did too.

 

“But, Allura’s not lost…” Hunk says, twisting his hands.

 

Keith closes his eyes. He can feel how tenderhearted Hunk is, worrying over Lance with nothing but kind intentions. He can feel Pidge’s acute desire to find a solution. Shiro’s patient, boundless empathy. He can feel too, Lance’s desperation, his urgency, the slow way he’s coming to terms with the loss. The way he’s talking things out, hands fluttering in front of him the way that they do, beginning to heal between the stars.  

 

He gives voice to that idea of hope, since no one else is mentioning it. “This is just Lance’s way of healing. It might be slow, but, like Shiro said, everyone is different.”

 

“How can you tell?” Hunk questions.

 

“I--” Keith frowns. “I can feel it?” He puts one palm over his heart. “You know? Through our bond.”

 

Hunk looks confused so Keith continues. “You know...sharing feelings because of the mental link. Voltron?”

 

He gets three semi-blank stares in response.

 

“Just out of curiosity, you don’t mean...literally feeling our feelings, right?” Pidge asks, head tilted.

 

“Okay, uh, sorry if everyone else has been chilling in the communal feelings pool, but, uh, I never felt anyone but me?” Hunk states, looking around.

 

Pidge agrees with him. “I mean, I feel connected with Green, and I feel the other lions, and there’s definitely some interesting mental link stuff going on, but not like, feelings.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hunk agrees,

 

“And definitely not at any other times other than when we’re forming Voltron.”

 

Keith looks to Shiro. “Maybe it’s a black paladin thing?”

 

Shiro shakes his head.

 

“I’ve always felt…” Keith doesn’t know how to explain. He’s stunned. “Ever since we first formed Voltron. I can feel if you’re,” he motions with his hand in a kind of vague way, “sad, or scared...or upset...”

 

Keith frowns down into his hands. There’s no good way to describe it.

 

“Keith. That must have been hard.” Shiro sounds surprised, maybe a little bit awed.

 

Keith disagrees. “It’s the most important part of my life.” He presses his lips together, suddenly trying not to cry. “You guys… are so important.” There are no words for the kind of bond they share, how precious it is to him. They hold his heart in their hands. They always have, since the first time they flew together. It's been an honor. It's been everything. “Like soulmates,” he finishes quietly.

 

The room is silent. Keith feels foolish---of course he’s the only one who cares this much. Everyone else has families and lives and hopes and dreams outside of Voltron. But to him---

 

Hunk walks around the table to where Keith is sitting. He pulls out Keith’s chair and gathers him into an embrace with no further preamble. “Keith, man, you know I love you right?” he chokes out, giving Keith a squeeze.

 

Keith goes stiff in his arms. Hunk shakes him a little bit, until Keith manages a throaty: “Yeah?”

 

“Absolutely.” Hunk confirms, setting him down. Pidge barrels into him next.

 

“I love you too, Keith,” she says, fierce. “You big dummy, why did you never talk about this before?”

 

“I, uh...thought it was obvious?”

 

Pidge snorts out a laugh against his chest.

 

“Galra!Keith, at it again,” Hunk assesses, wiping his eyes.

 

“My turn?” Shiro asks, when Pidge finally lets go.

 

Keith nods, unable to speak.

 

Shiro hugs him close. Keith rests his head on Shiro’s shoulder and feels at once safe and right and at home in his arms. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met,” Shiro tells him, sincere. Keith shakes his head and Shiro holds him a little closer.

 

When they part, Keith can’t help but smile, ducking his face down as Pidge and Hunk chatter and Shiro laughs and other people arrive to begin the meeting. There’s a realization here. It’s that thing again, the one that seems more like fate than chance; it’s the give and take of the universe, the balance, the _everyone is ultimately in this together_ feeling; it’s a surge of gratitude to have people in his life who understand. It’s calmness where there used to be disquiet and belonging where he used to be bereft.

 

The realization, however sweet, is tinged with sadness though. It shouldn’t have taken a loss this great for them to be this close. There’s strength in honesty. There’s truth in insecurity. There’s hope even in heartache. Keith holds tight to that hope and thinks that this realization will color his future different than his past.

 

*

 

That night, there’s an obnoxious knock at Keith’s door. He already know who knocks like that, even before the door swishes open.

 

“Hiya, Keith-y boy,” Lance drawls, rolling back on his heels. “Gotta minute?”

 

“Guess so,” Keith allows with a grimace, crossing his arms. The exchange feels stilted to him, but he’s playing the role Lance wants him to play. Lately, Lance doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and jabs at Keith like nothing is wrong. Lance isn’t as good of an actor as he thinks he is.

 

“Well.” Lance begins, lips pursed. He leans against the doorway, not fully in the room. His fingers wiggle in the air in front of him as he decides exactly what to say.

 

Keith raises his eyebrows.

 

“Yeah so,” Lance’s shoulders drop. “No way to make this funny.” He scratches at his temple, face angled away from Keith. “I’m going home.”

 

Keith looks up with a jerk.

 

“It’s long overdue, I mean, I’m not really helping out with anything here,” Lance draws in a breath, “I’m sure you’ve noticed, so.” He shrugs. “I already told the rest of the team. I’m packed, not that there’s much to pack---I am taking Kaltenecker, though! Wouldn’t leave my girl! But yeah, Lancey Lance is officially out. As of.” He wrinkles his nose, and narrows his eyes, looking at the wall instead of Keith. “Pretty much now.”

 

“Lance.” Keith is still processing everything, mind and heart cycling between too much at once. He takes a step forward.

 

“Try not to miss me too much,” Lance says airily, waving a hand. “Anyways---”

 

He’s cut off as Keith grabs his arm and wraps him in a hug. Lance doesn’t hug him back but Keith refuses to let go. Not yet.

 

“Woah, woah, woah, dude, since when are you Mr. Touchy Feely?” Lance jokes, patting his arm. He makes a feeble attempt at escaping, but soon gives up. Keith can feel the clench of his throat as he swallows.

 

“You don’t have to leave,” Keith tells him, voice tight. He needs Lance to know that, at the very least.

 

“I kiiiiinda do.” Lance shoots back, almost angry.

 

This isn’t how Keith wants them to part. He doesn’t want them to part at all, but if this is it, they have to at least part ways on good terms. Keith knows about putting walls up. He knows too, about the slow, painstaking process of bringing them down.

 

“Red will get you back safely,” he manages, withdrawing. He takes a step back.

 

“Actually.” Lance raises his eyes to Keith’s. They’re watery. “I’m taking Blue.”

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you made it to the end of the Big Angst!! deep breaths. Aiyah, we gotta fix this, don’t we? Canon did us so dirty, but we have a few chapters left !!


	16. Chapter 16

***

 

_Holding bay, refueling hub and supply depot Kglastro, Asteroid belt, Laudiuum cluster, Akacia system, lower ridge of the Pretoria galaxy._

 

Keith has his hand on his chin as he peers closer to the shimmering, vaguely-door-shaped thing that has materialized next to his ship. “You’re sure it’s safe?”

 

Pidge makes a sound that could be interpreted as squawk of offense or a noncommittal concession about the proposed safety of the thing in question. Keith chooses to be optimistic. “Well...if you’re sure,”

 

As if sentient, the gateway _sputters_ , sending out a shower of sparks from one edge.

 

Uh.

 

“You _are_ sure, right? Pidge?” Keith looks at the comm screen at his side, just in time to see Pidge push her glasses up her nose. It’s telling. Keith raises his eyebrows.

 

“Keith!!” Pidge realizes her mistake at the exact time Keith notices her nervous habit. She shoves her hand in the wide pocket of her lab coat and gives him her best scowl. “Do you really think I’d have you test out the Autostabilized Limit-circulating Earthbased Xeno-Interchange Space-time Rift if I didn’t know for SURE that it was safe?”  

 

“You need to think of a better name,” Keith muses, still side-eying the wormhole.

 

“The science is sound!! Matt can back me up!!”

 

Matt, who has been sitting on a lab counter in the background, his skinny arm elbow deep in a barrel of cheese balls, nods. “Katie is never wrong.” He shoves another radioactive-orange colored cheese puff past his lips, like this is a spectator sport and he’s enjoying the show. He munches.

 

Which is... somehow less than reassuring.

 

Keith has never been one to shy away from danger, however, and he is fully on-board with helping his friends in whatever way he can (even if that means being the guinea pig for what is mostly likely the first interdimensional wormhole travel on an individual scale...apparently). He lowers his stance, hands loosely in front of him, squaring off against the shimmering void. “Okay...so what do I do?”

 

Pidge’s eyes are shining in that way that they do when there’s Science about to happen. She paces a little, jostling the comm in her hand. “Okay well, you’re not going to be fighting the thing so you can put your hands down and stop standing like that,”

 

Keith drops his hands to his sides. “I was going to, you know,” he leans to one side, motioning with a tilt of his head, “run for it.”

 

“No, no,” Pidge groans. “It’s supposed to be a smooth transition.” She ruffles one hand through her hair, which is as endearingly untamed as it’s always been. “Howabout this? I’ll do a count? So on the---”

 

Keith steps forward. It _feels_ shimmery. Like pins and needles, but nicer.

 

_Lab Room A, Holt Labs, Galaxy Garrison North campus, New York, United States, Earth, Copernican System, Orion Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy._

 

“---count of three. One---”

 

“Huh,” Keith shakes out his hands like he’s getting the feeling back into them. “It worked.”

 

“KEITH!!!” Pidge shrieks, turning to Matt. She points at Keith. “It worked!!!!!!!”

 

“Katie is never wrong,” Matt repeats, smug. He licks cheese dust off his fingertips.

 

She tackles Keith into a hug and Keith laughs, almost in awe at the solid feeling of her in his arms. It’s been awhile, but here he is on Earth again. It’s like magic. Pidge is amazing. He plants a kiss on her forehead. “You’ve gotten taller, Pidge.”

 

She grins up at him, eyes bright. “What I’ve gotten is THE MOST IMPORTANT SCIENTIFIC BREAKTHROUGH OF THE CENTURY!!!!” She pulls away, her cackling bordering on maniacal, as she dances around. “Suck it Müller-Fischer Labs!!!! HA!”

 

(Müller-Fischer Labs have been working towards a similar project since the end of the Galran occupation on Earth, nearly two years ago. The similarity has placed the scientists in an unfortunate position: competition with Pidge. And when she heard that they were proposing a successful wormhole by the end of the decade, well. She cooked this baby up _real_ quick.)

 

Matt slides off the lab counter, bumping a fist against Pidge’s waiting hand. “Looks like you were right to couple the Mundal adjudicators with the switch transit,” he comments with a pointed look.

 

“If that’s supposed to be a ‘told you so,’ I don’t even care,” Pidge says without looking up. She’s stopped dancing for the moment and is typing madly on her laptop. She pauses, hands quivering over the keys. “Ohmigod wait until I tell Hunk.” The smile that spreads across her face is the most smug thing Keith has ever seen. “The entire project was double-modulated from start to finish.”

 

“That’ll teach him,” Matt agrees, slinging an arm over Keith’s shoulders. He makes as if to rub his cheese-dust-spit-covered hand on Keith’s chest, and Keith pushes him away with a shout of disgust. It’s good to see the Holts again.

 

Pidge has Hunk on the line in a moment’s time. He’s still on the Atlas with Shiro---if Keith remembers correctly, they’re in the Jii’lani quadrant of Telsor-9 right now, ironing out the details of a trade agreement between the Jors and the Lins. Keeping peace within the coalition can be a task.

 

Hunk is so excited he almost drops the comm when he sees Keith waving from behind Pidge. “Uh, excuse me? Who said you could perfect intergalactic transport without me?!” Pidge laughs and he starts gushing: “No really, Pidge, this is awesome. How did you overcome the frequency disconnect due to the temporal decay? Was it the Minovsky coefficient? Oh please tell me it was the Minovsky coefficient! That’s what I would have used.”

 

They launch into a complex discussion about some of the finer points of keeping the wormhole stable at smaller scale. Pidge is ranting and Hunk is nodding his head and interjecting and they’re both so into it that Keith can’t even begin to understand what’s going on. He smiles. Brings back good memories of being aboard the Castleship with his team.

 

It’s been too long since the five of them were together. Not since...

 

Well. Not since _before_.

 

Shortly after Lance left New Altea, the rest of the team split up as well. Keith couldn’t ignore Laav’s request for help, so he went to her home planet, Singu, and began rebuilding with a few of the other Blades. Just in small ways---repairing houses, helping distribute food, reuniting war-torn families. It was hard work, in some ways, but it made Keith feel _right._

 

He left Singu some months later, needed on Daibazaal with his mother. His status as the Black Paladin put him in a necessary, if not awkward, position for mediating the power struggle within the fallen Galran empire. But Krolia, steadfast in all things, and Kolivan, with his years of experience, will make for much better leaders of the empire than Keith ever would. So after Keith said his piece, he soon left again, this time to a small planet on the outskirts of the Akacia system. He’s grateful that so many of the Blade’s soldiers were happy to join him there, and together they’ve been gradually moving throughout the system, helping folks in need.

 

It’s good. Keith lays his head down on his pillow each night and feels like he’s doing his part in healing the world from the war in which he was a key player. Catharsis is a powerful motivator. A strong sense of purpose keeps him from getting restless.

 

But. He would be lying if he said he didn’t miss his friends. Calls are no substitute for the real thing.

 

That’s even more apparent by the end of the evening; Pidge convinced Keith to stay, of course.

 

Filled with pizza (neither she nor Matt can cook for shit, and it’s been ages since Keith has had Earth food, so he’s not complaining) and happily sandwiched between the Holts on the sofa they keep in their shared office, Keith feels content. Pidge is radiating a sunny, accomplished kind of happy; it washes over Keith through the bond and it’s almost cleansing, how bright it feels.

 

Matt asks him about his work with the Blade and Keith tells them about it shortly. They’ve all kept tabs on one another, but there’s some new details that Keith shares. Soon Pidge is asking questions and proposing new ideas, and _wow_ , Keith almost forgot how intense she can be.

 

“You’re staying the night,” Pidge tells him, some hours later. They’ve been talking for a long time---it’s closing in on midnight now. “I’ll recalibrate the rift in the morning to send you back to Kglastro, but for now, just come home with me.” She yawns. She’s been working non-stop on this project for awhile, and she looks like she could crash any time now. “You can sleep on the couch; it’s comfy. Or, if you want, I’ll take the couch, you take the bed, I don’t care---”

 

“That infamous Holt Hospitality---” Matt remarks, holding his beer up in salute. Keith snickers, knocking his can against it, and Pidge gives them both looks.

 

Keith clears his throat. “Actually. Since I’m here.” He shifts in his seat. “How far is Lance’s place?”

 

Pidge freezes mid-stretch. She tucks her hands into her lap, giving her brother a quick glance before meeting Keith’s eyes. “Keith.”

 

“What?”

 

“That’s a bad idea.”

 

Keith frowns. It’s been awhile, but---

 

“He doesn’t want to see us,” Pidge continues, voice soft, but brutally honest. At Keith’s noise of protest, she shakes her head. “No, believe me, I’ve tried.”

 

“He’s totally off the grid,” Matt says. When Lance returned to Earth, he all but disappeared.

 

Keith crosses his arms and scoffs. “ _You_ can’t find him? Pidge, that’s not true, you can find anybody.”

 

Pidge shrugs, getting up off the couch. “I have an address, sure, but what I’m saying is: Lance doesn’t _want_ to be found.”

 

Keith drops his gaze to his hands. His fingernails have gotten a little long---he doesn’t bite them anymore. He’s changed since the end of the war. They all have. Maybe dropping in on Lance _is_ a bad idea. Keith can’t deny that he’ll be bringing with him painful memories. But. He thinks of Lance’s chatter, how he filled up entire rooms of the castleship with brightness, the way he made people laugh, brought them together. The strength he gave to the team. Surely the memories aren’t _all_ bad? They aren’t for Keith.  

 

“I have to try.” Keith decides.

 

“It’s almost a five hour drive,” Pidge tries one last warning, even though her expression shows a kind of wry resignation. She’s stubborn, but so is Keith. It’s something they have in common.

 

“I’ll make it in three,” Keith responds.

 

She gives him a sour look and Keith holds firm, keeping his expression blank.

 

Pidge shakes her head, but agrees to lead him to the Garrison’s garage. What he does after she lets him in, well. It’s not the first time Keith has ‘borrowed’ a hoverbike.

 

*

 

It’s early spring on this part of the planet, and the night air is chilly. He leaves the Garrison, adjusting the borrowed helmet and taking off with a wave goodbye to Pidge. Her words _(he doesn’t want to be found, Keith)_ are still echoing in his head. He knows that she and her brother have good intentions---truth be told, he’d be nervous about seeing Lance again, regardless of their warning. He’s the only one of the paladins with whom Keith hasn’t kept in touch. And he and Lance have a history of…well, they have a history of a lot of things, but it’s not like they’ve never argued before. Keith doesn’t want to start a fight. His pulse is loud in his ears, even as the bike roars to life beneath him, and he wonders if this will be a huge mistake.

 

But Keith has always felt better with his feet off the ground.

 

The hoverbike handles like it was made for him. Keith pitches over the highway in a blaze of machinery and noise, leaving the Garrison and the city lights far behind him. For a moment, he can forget his nerves. He’s sixteen again, feeling free for the first time as he races beside Shiro over the dusty Arizona desert. He’s just connected to Red, and everything in him thrums with her primal, vermillion strength, crimson enough to color cosmos with its intensity. He’s diving for the first time in Black, the throes of battle raging around them, their relationship just strong enough to trust this much, wild and terrifying and new.

 

Keith travels through the night, heart and head full of anxieties and memories and the unparalleled rush that comes with flying.

 

(Doesn’t Lance miss it?

 

Isn’t this need to fly buried so deep inside him that it could never be fully erased?

 

Aren’t he and Keith the same that way?)

 

He doesn’t quite make it in three hours, but the sun still hasn’t risen when Keith pulls up to a large house and cuts the engine. He takes another looks at the piece of paper with Pidge’s familiar scrawl denoting Lance’s address, and swallows his nerves as best he can.

 

There’s a bicycle overturned haphazardly in the yard, not far from the driveway. The path to the front door is interspersed with plastic toys and a small bucket of sidewalk chalk in pastel colors. There’s a white wrap around porch, the first step creaks. Little details that spell out a whole life that Keith knows nothing about. He opens the screen door, suddenly not sure if there’s a place for him in a life like this. Maybe coming here _was_ a mistake. _‘Katie is never wrong.’_  He knocks.

 

The porch light flicks on after one long moment of silence following his knock. Keith takes a step back.

 

The woman who opens the door is shorter than Keith. He hair is tamed into a bun low on the back of her neck. She wraps a robe a little tighter around her and peeks out at Keith. “Yes?”

 

“Hi. I’m, uh. I’m looking for Lance,” Keith says. His mouth is dry. He fidgets with the helmet in his hands.

 

The woman gives Keith a once over. Keith isn’t good at reading people, for the most part, but he can recognize fear. She isn’t afraid, but she doesn’t trust him.

 

“Are you going to ask him to leave again?”

 

Her expression and question bring about a rush of emotion in Keith so strong and so abrupt that he blinks against it. This is Lance’s mother. She must be.

 

“No, ma’am. I’m not.”

 

It’s true as soon as he says it. He swallows. Shakes his head. _I would never ask him to leave, not for me_. “I just...want to see him. I’m,” he smiles, hopeful that it doesn’t appear self-deprecating, “a friend.”

 

She looks up at him, eyes the same tone of blue as Lance’s. They have the same nose as well. She steps out onto the porch.

 

“You’re at the wrong house,” she says, giving the hoverbike’s Garrison logo (big G, little G) a long look. Her accent makes the words gentle in the dark, curling at all the edges, soothing even when the meaning of her words isn’t. “He hasn’t lived with us since he got back.”

 

“I didn’t know.” Keith says, hugging the helmet against his chest. He thought that when Lance went home, it was to be with his family.

 

Lance’s mother makes a noise of disapproval, maybe as if to mean, _some friend you are._ Or maybe it means something a bit more heartfelt, sadness at Lance withdrawing so completely. From his friends. From his family. She doesn’t say anything more to Keith, not really. Just short, careful words, giving him directions further west. Keith nods his head, intent on listening. When he nudges the bike out of her driveway, she stays outside to watch him leave, one hand on the door as if she isn’t sure if she should go back inside.  

 

*

 

Keith continues onward. Sprawling fields break up wooded areas; the roads become more narrow and the houses stand further apart from one another. The sun is beginning to rise at the horizon behind Keith as he dismounts his bike for the second time.

 

He’s nervous. Keith has run countless missions on his own. He’s faced down entire Galran infantries with nothing more than his mother’s knife. He’s led his dearest friends into war, forced into split-second decisions that could be fatal for one or all of them. He’s made speeches on a ridiculous scale, to more worlds than he can count. But right now, his heart is racing.

 

Keith approaches the door, a million ways to start this conversation going around in his head. He knows he’s going to fuck this up. He and Lance parted with such raw feelings between them. The look in Lance’s eyes as he pulled away...Keith will never forget it…

 

_Shit, what can he possibly say?_

 

The thought crosses his mind that he could leave now. It would be easier, maybe. He would avoid hurting himself, hurting Lance, bringing up old wounds. But it seems wrong to be on Earth and not at least _try_ to visit Lance. Keith has never been the type to shy away from what his heart tells him is right. And this is right.

 

The door opens, just as Keith raised his fist to knock. The air lurches out of his lungs like a punch to the gut.

 

The Altean marks are the most striking thing, the first thing Keith notices. In his mind’s eye, they’re absent from Lance’s face. He never imagines Lance as looking any way but Lance: his teasing mouth, the thin brows with which he speaks volumes, the color of his eyes, the constant motion of his hands. Here now, the alien symbols steal attention away from everything else, bright half moons embedded into his skin.

 

He’s dressed already, despite the early hour. Blue jeans, similar to, if not the same, beat-to-death Levi’s he left Earth in, and a grey sweatshirt. There’s a logo Keith doesn’t recognize across the front, but the one of the hood’s drawstrings is between Lance’s teeth. He used to chew on the strings from his green jacket too. It was annoying as hell.

 

“Lance,” Keith breathes. Seeing him here...he’s in arm’s reach, safe and whole and real.

 

Keith thought---He thought that he might not feel the way he did before. That time and distance between them would temper the intensity of his want. That his heart might catch up to his mind and realize the futility of longing. He thought... But he was wrong. It’s like no time has passed at all. His heart swoops in his chest.

 

Lance looks him up and down. The drawstring drops from his mouth and he raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

 

“Uh,” Keith says intelligently, brushing his hair behind one ear. It’s longer now, past his shoulders even, but he shouldn’t look _that_ different. He’s dressed in civilian clothes---just simple black jeans and boots, and a red jacket that reminds him of his old one. Maybe he should have come in his marmoran suit? Or his paladin armor? Would that have been better?

 

“Keith?” He holds his arms out to his sides, like that will give Lance a better view. “It’s me, Keith.”

 

Lance tilts his head.

 

“Yeah, no, not ringing any bells,” Lance says, closing the door.

 

“Like from Voltron? Keith?” Keith catches the door, desperate.

 

And that’s when he notices the glint in Lance’s eyes. The one that Keith has seen a thousand times. Lance is laughing at him.

 

“Lance.” Keith says, tone warning.

 

“There’s no Lance here. I think you have the wrong place.” The mischief glimmers in his eyes. One side of his mouth has the audacity to tick up. He adopts a kitschy accent because of course he does: “I am Hans, a simple goat herder.”

 

“Stop being an asshole and let me inside.” Keith makes to push his way past Lance.

 

Lance steps outside instead, pulling the door shut behind him. “Actually, Keitharino, I was just on my way out.” He jingles the keys in his hand before locking the door.

 

“Lance---”

 

“Hans.” Lance corrects, one finger wagging in the air in front of Keith’s face. He lopes down from the front porch and starts a leisurely stroll around to the back of the house.

 

“Hans,” Keith rolls his eyes, trailing behind him, “I was--- hang on, aren’t you, I don’t know, surprised to see me?”

 

Lance shrugs, the long lines of his body as relaxed as ever. There’s a barn to the edge of the property, brown wood with a door painted white. He makes his way there, turning slightly to give Keith a half-assed smile. “Dude, Zarkon himself could show up and I’d be like, sure, why not?”

 

Keith frowns. He’d like to think he’s a more welcome visitor than a homicidal, thousand-year-old alien dictator.

 

“I have work to do today,” Lance announces, wheeling the large barn door open, “So as fun as this could be,” he motions between them, “You should probably just,” he raises an index finger to the bright morning sky, “phone home.”

 

“If that’s supposed to be a dig at me being half Galran, then it’s actually pretty funny,” Keith says, crossing his arms as he follows Lance inside.

 

“And yet, you’re not laughing,” Lance shoots back, grabbing some stuff from a table near the door. “Good moooooo-ning beautiful!!” He coos, walking into a stall with a sleepy Kaltenecker.

 

She regards Keith with her big, dark eyes, not overly concerned. She’s not surprised to see him either, apparently.

 

“I’ll help.”

 

“Huh?” Lance looks up from his crouched position as he cleans her up. The milking pail is close by.

 

“You said you have work to do. I’ll help.”

 

Lance gives him a critical look. He goes back to the task. The milk makes a pinging sound inside the bucket.

 

“I can help,” Keith insists.

 

Several expressions pass over Lance’s face, too quick for Keith to parse them.

 

Keith crouches down next to him and sticks his hands out. “It can’t be that hard.”

 

Lance flails around at his sudden closeness before swatting Keith away, “You keep your weird mullet hands away from my baby!!” He pats Kaltenecker’s belly and shoots Keith a dirty look. “She’s been through a lot, you know. She doesn’t need any manhandling---only the most delicate touch.”

 

“I can be delicate,” Keith grumbles, rubbing the top of his hand where Lance slapped it.

 

Lance scoffs. “Sure and I’m a yelmore’s uncle.” He rolls his eyes. “If you really want to help, go grab the pitchfork from the other side of the barn; it’s with the other tools in the corner. We’re going to clean up her stall next.”

 

Lance continues like that, ordering Keith around as they go through the homestead’s morning chores. Processing the milk from Kaltenecker, cleaning out the barn while she grazes. Lance walks them to the chicken coops, to let the hens out and collect their eggs, and feed them, chatting with them all the while ( _Anular! Stop bullying Meñique! She deserves to have just as much---well, well Pulgar, nice of your to finally join us! Índice, you can stop right now with the pity party, I know your tricks---_ ). There’s ducks too, and rabbits, and why does Lance live in an actual zoo?

 

After they tend to all the animals, all the way down to the four barn cats that keep wrapping around Keith’s legs and threatening to trip him, Lance does a quick survey of the garden. “I was going to sort out that row today,” he squints and points to the far end of the crops with his thumb, “but since you’re here…”

 

“I’ll help with whatever,” Keith reiterates, drawing an arm across his forehead. It’s mid-morning now, the chill is gone from the air. He thinks he should have bought something with which to tie his hair back. He shrugs off the red jacket and tosses it close to his hoverbike. It’s getting hot.

 

As if reading his mind, Lance tugs his sweatshirt off. He pulls it over his head from the shoulders so that it rucks up the shirt beneath. Keith catches a glimpse of two more Altean marks, no wider than his thumb, stretching out from the small of Lance’s back towards his hips. Lance pulls down his white tee shirt and they disappear from view.

 

“Since you’re here,” Lance continues, pulling Keith’s eyes up to his face. His floofy hair is messy from the hoodie. “There’s some errands I need to run in town. You can give me a hand.”

 

*

 

The red pick-up truck wheezes to a stop as Lance brings it around to the front yard. Keith raises his eyebrows.

 

“Shut your quiznak,” Lance hollers over the rumble of the engine.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Keith says, walking around to the passenger side. Lance leans across the cab to pop open his door. With a grunt, Keith steps up to join him inside. The dashboard is dusty and the fabric of the seat is faded and pockmarked with cigarette burns. There’s cassettes littered over the dash; Keith plucks one of these closest to him _(Endless Summer by The Beach Boys_ ) and shoves it in the radio as Lance eases the truck into the narrow road.

 

_“.....those who don’t just have to put it do-ooown_

 

_(ooh ah oohah)_

 

_You paddle out, turn around, and raise,_

 

_Baby that’s all there is to this coastline craze_

 

_Catch a wave and you’re….”_

 

“She’s not mine,” Lance says with a grin, turning the volume down lower. He has his window rolled down and the air lifts some of the hair off his forehead as he nods towards the bed of the truck. “One of the guys in town, Wilson, lets me borrow her coupla times a week, ‘cause I help him with stuff around his place.”

 

Keith looks out the window. The view is different in the daytime. Gently rolling land, plush green, quiet. It’s picturesque. It doesn’t seem like Lance at all. Or maybe it is Lance, and Keith just doesn’t understand. _Are you happy here?_ Keith wants to ask. “Sounds good,” he muses, settling into the bench style front seat.

 

Lance nods, eyes on the road. His right hand is loose on the bottom edge of the steering wheel by his knee, the other hand lightly drumming over the open window. The town, which is a generous word for the handful of storefronts gathered ‘round single streetlight, is not far off.

 

The first place they stop is an unnamed supply store. There’s a little bell on the glass door that rings when they walk inside, and the men gathered at the register know Lance.

 

They greet Keith too, with warm, rough handshakes and claps on his back. “Nice to meet ya!” and “One of Lance’s space buddies!? Good to see ya around here!”

 

Keith makes small talk---easy to do since they’re so friendly and they keep talking over each other---while Lance goes off with one of them to pick up his usual order. He returns a moment later with a hefty bag of feed over one shoulder and a large bucket in the opposite hand. The men have plenty of opinions about what Keith and Lance should do with the afternoon:

 

“Might rain, I’d watch the time if you’ve got somewhere to be,”

 

“Take him to Lotty’s! Boy looks like he needs a good meal!”

 

“They both do, if you ask me,”

 

“Nobody’s asking you, Paulie,”

 

“I remember the last time Frank was in town, shit, the very first thing he said to me was…”

 

“Frank!! Forgot all about that old mother! What’s he up to, nowadays?”

 

Keith takes the bucket from Lance. It’s heavier than he expected, especially since Lance had been carrying it with such ease.

 

Lance tosses him a grateful smile and hauls the bag that’s sitting on his shoulder up a little higher. “Lotty’s is a good idea, actually. I was headed that direction anyways---”

 

“Oh ho!” A couple of the guys hoot. “Were ya?!”

 

“Catherine’s a lucky girl, I’ll say,”

 

“More like, Lance is the lucky one!”

 

“He’s lucky alright!!”

 

“Keep your mouths shut,” Lance says prodding a finger into the air in front of him, “Every single one of you needs to zip it!”

 

They cackle and Lance shakes his head, all but pushing Keith out of the store.

 

“What’s that all about,” Keith asks.

 

He misses Lance’s response, however, too caught up in watching the way Lance unlatches the back of the truck and effortlessly steps up into the bed. The denim jeans hug his ass in a way that they didn’t before. His legs have always been long, but the rest of him has filled out to match now. He reaches down from the truck bed to get the bucket from Keith, and the swell of his biceps, the broad plane of his back, is not lost on Keith.

 

“You hungry?” Lance asks, trailing off from whatever he was saying before.

 

Keith nods.

 

*

 

The diner, Lotty’s, looks like somewhere time forgot---the interior has wood paneling down the walls, worn leather booths, speckled tile floors. The people here are just as friendly as the guys in the shop, but more important than the decor or the waitstaff: Lotty’s has cheeseburgers.

 

For a few minutes, Keith transcends time and space as he finally gets to sink his teeth into the one Earth food he’s been craving most. Lance’s Coca-Cola and Number Three Special sit forgotten as he gawks at Keith shoving fries into his mouth with wild abandon.

 

“Please tell me they’re not still feeding you goo up there,” Lance begs.

 

Keith shrugs, the last remnant of bun and patty held tight between his fingers. He shoves it in his mouth, considering: “The food at the refueling depots and swap moons isn’t so bad,” he sips his sweet tea, “but for the most part we’ve been crashing in hostels or making camp on our own.” The last few fries scrape up the final portion of a pool of ketchup. “Nothing as good as this,”

 

Lance shakes his head. “Dude. That’s sad.”

 

Keith shrugs again, licking the salt from his fingers before he realizes that’s bad manners and shoves them in his lap. “S’Not sad.”

 

“It _is_ sad.” Lance declares. He throws up one hand, spelling out a headline in the air: “Savior of the Universe, Keith Kogane, Spends Sleepless Nights Pining Over Shitty Diner Food.”

 

Keith fixes him with a humorless gaze, like, _really?_

 

Lance lowers the register of his voice, rasping out:  “Oh Kolivan!! What I wouldn’t give to taste it one last time! That beef patty! Processed cheese! Those luscious buns!”

 

Keith snorts.The words ‘Kolivan’ and ‘lucious buns’ should not be uttered in the same sentence. “Yes, Lance, it’s exactly like that. That’s my life.”

 

Lance throws his head back and laughs at him, absolutely beaming. It might be the first real smile he’s given Keith since...well. For a long time. He’s got a bit of mustard on one edge of his mouth and his dimples are just as deep as they’ve ever been, and the Altean marks don’t distract from the way his eyes crinkle around the edges---not at all. If anything, they enhance it. He looks happy.

 

Keith can’t help but smile in return. It’s good to see Lance look like that again.

 

Lance clears his throat, ducking his face down a bit. The tips of his ears are red. “So I have a couple more stops, but they won’t take long. You can wait here if you want.”

 

“Wait here--why would I--?” Keith frowns at him.

 

“I dunno dude, it looked like you were having a religious experience earlier. I can order you another burger and leave you two alone together,” Lance says, holding his hands up in a _don’t ask me_ kinda way.

 

“I’m good.” Keith slides out of the booth. “I’m coming with you.”

 

They bring their check to the front counter and Lance makes a big show of pretending to have forgotten his wallet, which sends Keith into a minor panic. (The Galran currency card he has in his pocket is probably not considered legal tender at Lotty’s Hasty Tasty diner). Lance, of course, is just a jerk and did not forget his wallet at all. Keith grinds his teeth in irritation and Lance looks incredibly self-satisfied. He’s impossible.

 

*

 

Keith expected that they might need to pick up some more supplies or tools or groceries or something like that. He did not expect for the next stop to be a florist.

 

He trails next to him as Lance strolls---the flower shop is only two doors down from the diner---arms loose, tucked into his back pockets. Lance walks the same whether he’s aboard an ancient alien castle, managing intergalactic diplomacy, or running errands in a no-name Earth town. It’s comforting. One of the many things Keith missed.

 

Lance opens the door to the flower shop with a little shout, “Anybody home?”

 

“Lance?” A short blonde girl, maybe about a year or two younger than them, peeks around a table of mums.

 

“Hey Catherine,” Lance says, not quite smiling, but close. “How’ve you been?”

 

And Keith’s heart sinks.

 

Because she’s adorable. She has on a utilitarian green vinyl apron and mismatched gloves, which she tugs off, before touching her wispy ponytail as if to adjust it. Her eyes are a pretty hazel and her mouth is a pretty pout and she shuffles up to them with the sweetest frown. “You smell like Lotty’s.”

 

Lance laughs, soft. “Guilty. But how can I show Keith around town and not take him to Lotty’s?”

 

“A crime,” she agrees, pseudo-serious. “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” she tells Keith, and it might be the mischievous look in her eyes, but Keith can’t help but feel like there’s a joke here that he’s missing.

 

“Sir!! Sir?!!” Lance sputters, “What do you mean, ‘sir’?! This is Keith! He’s no ‘sir’!”

 

She puts her hands on her hips and glares up at Lance. “Well, excuse me, but it’s not everyday that a pilot from the infamous Voltron finds his way into my shop.”

 

“Uhh,” Lance might injure himself with the way he’s tilting his head back and waving his arms in supreme offense. “Yes it is??? I’m right here!!!!”

 

She laughs.

 

“You don’t ever get starstruck around me!” Lance protests.

 

“What can I say, you’re an easy going type of guy,” she teases him, touching his arm.

 

Lance was right. Keith should have waited in the diner. He shuffles further away from them, pretending to be very interested in a shelf of perennials.

 

They chat, not for long, but it’s long enough. Keith gets it. He understands.

 

Lance is okay. He’s carved out a place for himself here, on his homestead, in this small town, and he’s doing okay. He doesn’t need Keith to come here and save him. Maybe he’s still carrying around scars from the war, from their time together, but he’s healing them on his own.

 

Keith adjust a label on the shelf from where it’s come loose. Checking in on Lance was the right thing to do. But now he’s ready to go.

 

*

 

“She likes you.” Keith says in the truck. There’s a bouquet of flowers---daisies of all things---on the seat in between them. They’re headed back towards Lance’s house.

 

“Who?” Lance leans forward, turning down the radio.

 

“That girl. Catherine.” Keith doesn’t know why he’s bringing this up. There’s no reason for him to butt into Lance’s personal life. He should stop.

 

“Psh.” Lance waves his hand, “Nah,”

 

“You could date her,” Keith pushes harder. What he’s really saying is, _you should be happy. You can move on. Even if its not with me, you deserve that._ Is he trying to convince himself or Lance?

 

Lance throws a glance his way, before returning his eyes to the road. His hands tighten over the wheel.

 

“Speaking of,” Lance says with false lightness in his voice, “I heard Shiro is dating a guy from his bridge crew.”

 

“Yeah,” Keith says, not sure how the two circumstances are even remotely related. “Curtis.”

 

Lance hums a reply.

 

“Wait,” Keith frowns. If Lance is so ‘off the grid’ how does he know that? Shiro and the crew of the Atlas are a million lightyears away, not even in this galaxy. “How do you---”

 

“I have my ways,” Lance says, waggling his brows, even though the stiffness is not quite gone from his shoulders.

 

“Like what,” Keith says, eyes narrowed. He crosses his arms.

 

Lance deflates. “Shiro calls me once a week.” He tosses Keith a wry half-smile. “Pretty sure he has me scheduled in his calendar: 1600 hours- lead kumbaya and campfire songs on the Starship Enterprise, 1700 hours- make sure Lance is still kickin’, 1800 hours- explore Tatooine,”

 

“There’s no planet Tatooine,” Keith says crossly.

 

“That you know of,” Lance corrects. “Anyways, we have our weekly therapy session, yes I’m still alive, no I’m not dead; yes he’s still alive, no he’s not dead,” Lance motions with his hand as though this could take a long time, “and that’s that. Once a week.”

 

“Huh.” Keith talks to Shiro regularly too. That’s sneaky---he’s probably been checking in on all of them.

 

“That’s how I heard the story of you breaking your arm,” Lance says, sly.

 

“Whaa--”

 

“The beautiful and wild Keith Kogane, ace pilot extraordinaire, perfect in all ways,”

 

“Shut up,”

 

“FELL OUT OF A TREE,”

 

Keith should punch him, he really should, “SHUT UP,”

 

“BECAUSE HE WAS RESCUING A SPACE CAT,”

 

“She was stuck!!!!!!!” Keith scowls. “And it wasn’t really broken. It was just a fracture.”

 

“Relax, Keith-y boy.” Lance leans over and flicks him in the temple. It stings. “I thought it was a cute story.”

 

“Hrmph.” Keith looks out the window. Lance must be taking a different route home. The scenery isn’t the same.

 

“But yeah, man. I heard.” Lance blows out a soft sigh. “You doing okay?”

 

Keith waves his arm around a little. “Yeah, it’s completely healed now. I’m fine.”

 

Lance gives him a quizzical look. “No, no, not the arm. Shiro dating.” At Keith’s blank expression, he continues, “I know you and him...y’know.” He raises his eyebrows significantly, fingers drumming over the steering wheel. “And so. Yeah. That’s rough.”

 

“Lance.” Keith shifts in his seat, turning towards him. “What are you _talking_ about?”

 

Lance swallows. “I get that it’s none of my business, so I should probably just keep my trap shut, but.” He shrugs. “C’mon, Keith. You and Shiro. You have always…”

 

Keith understand what he’s getting at. He stops him. “Shiro has never thought of me like that.”

 

Lance winces. “But you...towards him…”

 

Keith is quiet for a moment, just listening to the rumble of the Chevy and the soft crackle of the radio in the background. “Not for a long time.”

 

He’ll probably never love anyone the way he loved Shiro when he was sixteen, racing beside him on a hoverbike. He adored him---his whole heart was wrapped in that simple adoration; it was exciting to have someone to care for, someone that noticed him, someone that made him believe the best of himself. His life would have been a lot different without Shiro.

 

It’s not so easy to put into words how fast and how bright that love burned, the vigor and resilience of it. The strength that Keith garnered from that flame. Even now, it’s something that could never be extinguished; Keith’s heart doesn’t work like that. He loves like he does everything else: with intention undivided, his whole self committed to the conviction. Lance must think that because his love for Shiro burned in him so fervently, it left a scar. That it must have hurt. It didn’t.

 

Rather than leaving destruction in its wake, it blazed a trail. It’s a precious thing, that first love. Made even brighter and more precious by all the relationships that have stemmed from it.

 

Including what he feels for Lance now.

 

Lance doesn’t seem convinced by Keith’s short admission, but he doesn’t pry any further. He makes a soft noise, barely audible above the noise of the engine, and keeps his eyes forward, on the road ahead.

 

*

 

“Lance. This isn’t your house.”

 

Lance shifts the truck into park and removes the key from the ignition. He turns to Keith and snaps his fingers in dismay. “Man. _Nothing_ gets past you.”

 

Ignoring Keith’s subsequent sour look (and maybe chuckling to himself) Lance grabs the bouquet of daisies and slides out of the truck.

 

The house is tinier than Lance’s, though just as distant from the town. The closest neighbor seems to be miles away, and the property butts up to woods on one side. Lance doesn’t walk up to the front door, but instead, trails his way past the garage to the back patio.

 

Keith follows him, eyeing the sheets hanging from a clothesline out in the yard, and the herb garden in planters near the door.

 

“Who’s house…”

 

Lance shushes him.

 

Lance doesn’t knock. The back door is open and he presses his face close to the screen door, peering inside the kitchen.

 

“Oh my word! Lance!!”

 

Lance cackles as an elderly woman pushes the screen door open, ushering him inside. “One of these days you are goin’ to give this old lady the fright of her life.”

 

“Never,” Lance argues, stepping inside.

 

Lance hugs her. She’s small enough that he can rest his cheek on the top of her snowy white hair. Keith can see him smile, eyes closed, perfectly content, as she continues to chide him for sneaking up on her. He gets the impression that this is a conversation they’ve had before.

 

“Oh right.” Lance pulls away, motioning to Keith standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Norma. This is Keith, my intern.”

 

Keith shoots him a glare.

 

“Honestly, Norma,” Lance shakes his head, looking beleaguered. “He’s caused me so much trouble---you wouldn’t believe. I’m going to have to dock his pay.”

 

“Half of nothing is still nothing, Lance,” Keith tells him, unimpressed.

 

Lance ignores him entirely. “So yeah, if you want, I can just tell him to wait in the truck while I---”

 

“Keith, love, so pleased to meet you,” Norma says, clasping one of Keith’s hands in hers. Her hands are small, and unimaginably soft. She doesn’t let go, but instead squeezes his hand as Lance starts to bustle around her kitchen.

 

Lance pulls out a glass vase from under her sink, “Would you believe that this guy was just standing outside my house this morning?”

 

“Oh?”

 

Lance nods. He carefully unties the bouquet of daisies and arranges them in the vase with a little water. “Yeah, I open my door and there he is!!” He throws his hands up in the air, shaking his head. “Talk about a surprise!”

 

“Oh my,” Norma looks up at Keith and gives him a little wink, like they’re sharing a joke. “A nice surprise though, I’m sure.”

 

“Eh.” Lance shrugs.

 

Keith gives him a look and Lance cracks a smile. He takes the vase with the flowers into the living room, and Norma follows, pulling Keith with her, still holding his hand.

 

She settles into a couch with Keith next to her. Lance takes a vase of flowers that’s on the coffee table already and replaces it with the ones he just brought. He takes the old ones to the kitchen.

 

“The flowers are lovely,” Norma tells him when he returns. “Daisies are my favorite.”

 

Lance flops onto an armchair cattycorner to the couch. “I had no idea.”

 

He smirks and catches Keith’s eyes, motioning with his glance upwards to the curtains. They’re yellow with daisies printed on them.

 

Norma finds the remote control for the television (resting on a doily on a little table next to her side of the couch) and mutes it. “Lance, sweet, did you ever sort things out with Roger?”

 

Lance sighs heavily and shakes his head. He begins telling Norma all about his Roger-related woes. (Turns out, Roger is the name of one of Lance’s ducks and he is a bully to the other ducks).

 

A fat little dog waddles over and sniffs Keith’s boots.

 

“Gingersnap, mind your manners,” Norma warns.

 

“Don’t worry, Norma,” Lance interjects before Keith can say anything. “Keith loves dogs.”

 

Keith smiles to himself as Gingersnap snuffles at his hands and Lance starts going into details about the space wolf. Lance always was good at telling a story. Even if it is tangentially, because of his wolf, it still feels nice to be included in one of them.  

 

Norma keeps interrupting him in a confused, old kind of way, but Lance is patient. He seems to enjoy her commentary, and she, his story.

 

Lulled by the sound of their voices, Keith feels himself start to drift off. It was morning for him when he made the jump to Earth, but it would surely be very late by his time now. Jet lag from wormhole jumping is definitely going to be a problem.

 

“Love, if you’re cold, I can get you an afghan.” Norma tells Keith, leaning over to pat his lap.

 

He has no doubt that she can. There’s at least three crocheted blankets in varying colors within grabbing distance from this one spot alone. However, the room is bordering on sweltering. He definitely doesn’t need a blanket.

 

“Uh, I’m good. Thanks, though.” Keith tries a smile. He’s very close to sleep.

 

“Lance, sweet, I wonder, could you do me a favor?” Norma says some time later, when the conversation has waned.

 

“Sure,” Lance drums his fingers on the armchair. “Whatcha need?”

 

Norma explains to him that she’s been looking for a certain photo all morning long, but she can’t seem to find it. The only other place it could be is in a box in the attic. Could he look for her?

 

“No sweat,” Lance says.

 

Keith rouses himself out of his half-nap, makes to get up to help him.

 

“Keith, you stay with me,” Norma says, getting up herself. “I can use you in the kitchen.”

 

Keith nods, watching as Lance pulls the stairs down from the hall to get into the attic.

 

Norma has a hand on the stairs, looking up anxious after Lance. “Sweet, I think the box is blue, if I remember right,”

 

“Got it!” Lance calls down. “There’s a lot up here, Norms! Might take me a minute.”

 

“Take your time, dear,” Norma replies, shuffling to the kitchen. Keith follows.

 

“Up in the top cabinet there,” Norma tells Keith motioning, “There’s a pretty little plate,”

 

Keith reaches and takes one down, “This?”

 

“Perfect,” Norma says. “Thank you, love,” She opens the pantry and pulls out a box of Nilla wafers and begins arranging them on the plate.

 

There’s a bit of stained glass, shaped like a daisy, hanging in the window above the sink. The countertops are full of boxes and baubles and a basket with a crochet hook and yarn. The front of the refrigerator is covered in magnets and newspaper articles and magazine cutouts. It feels home-y.

 

Norma gets three glasses out of one of the cabinets. She opens the fridge and takes out a carton of Minute Maid lemonade. “My special recipe,” she tells Keith, conspiratorially. “Don’t you go telling anybody.”

 

“I won’t,” Keith says, lips pursed into a smile as she pours the lemonade into a glass.

 

“I know you won’t, sweet,” Norma says, setting down the plate of Nilla wafers on the table. She motions for Keith to take his lemonade and sit down across from her.

 

She munches on one of the cookies as he sits and sips his lemonade. She doesn’t seem bothered by his silence in the least.

 

“There’s no box,” she tells Keith, after a bit.

 

“Huh?” Keith pauses, Nilla wafer halfway to his mouth.

 

“No special box up there. No picture either.” She smiles at Keith’s confused expression. “Lance is a sweetheart, to spend his time visiting an old lady like me.”

 

Keith frowns, “What do you mean, there’s no picture?”

 

“He’s very lonely. I worry. So I always try to find something for him to do when he comes over.”

 

Keith inhales, holding his glass tight. He thinks of Catherine and the diner and the men in the supply store and Lance’s farm. He exhales, “He doesn’t seem lonely.”

 

Norma finishes her lemonade. “I met Lance late one night. Gingersnap had gotten loose in the yard and he was walking past---he does that, walks late at night, far from home. He was kind, helping me with Gingersnap. When I asked him what he was doing out so late, he said he was just enjoying the stars.” She shakes her head. “I thought, here’s a boy with a lonely heart.”

 

Keith studies the yellow and chrome formica tabletop. “Lance has been through a lot,” he says, quiet.

 

“He loves you,” Norma tells him.

 

Keith looks up. He opens his mouth to protest,

 

“This is the happiest I’ve ever seen him,” Norma says. She pats Keith’s hand.

 

“Norma!” Lance appears in the kitchen doorway. “I think...this is it?” He has a cardboard box in his hands. His hair is all messy with dust and cobwebs.

 

“Let’s see, sweet,” Norma gets up and motions for Lance to set the box down on the chair. She hands him a glass of lemonade and goes about opening the box.

 

There’s a stack of photo albums inside, and Norma is marveling at them and Lance is chattering, but Keith isn’t paying attention.

 

He’s too caught up in the image of Lance walking down faraway roads at night. Lance under the stars. Lance with the lonely heart.

 

Lance who left him with tears in his eyes.

 

Lance who fits in his arms like no one else does. Lance who makes his pulse leap and leaves him breathless and dumb with want. Lance who never fails to have his back or stoke his temper or charm him into a smile.

 

Lance, as he is now, white tee shirt and old jeans, sitting in a kitchen that feels like home, exuding nothing but affection, and an easy, comfortable type of kindness.

 

Keith is caught, caught, and it’s carmine sweet and burns deeper than it has before.

 

*

 

Keith doesn’t break his promise to Lance’s mother.

 

_‘Come back with me,’_ Keith wants to tell him, a little later, when he’s settled on his stolen hoverbike and the helmet is in his hands and goodbye seems impossible.

 

He doesn’t say that.

 

“You’re doing good here.” He says instead. It’s not a question. Keith doesn’t ask it like a question because Lance won’t be honest with his answer. He knows that.

 

“You surprised by that, Keith-y boy?” Lance might be trying for smug, but he looks nervous. He shifts his weight, fingers twitching at his sides. When he meets Keith’s eyes, the look is almost calculating, like he’s trying to anticipate the direction of this conversation and dodge accordingly.

 

Keith shakes his head.

 

“Lance.” Keith grips the helmet in his hands. If Lance won’t be honest, then he will. As much as he can. “I want you to be happy. Whatever it takes.”

 

Keith drops his gaze down. There’s an unspoken addendum: With whomever it takes.

 

_Maybe with me._

 

There’s a beat of silence between them.

 

The moment breaks as Lance chokes out a wet sounding laugh. Keith looks up just in time to see his wobbly mouth stretch into a crooked smile.

 

Lance blows out a breath, “I always forget how serious you are, man,”

 

Keith purses his lips. “I am not!”

 

“Whatever it takes.” Lance repeats in a solemn voice, shaking his head. He’s grinning now, a gentle, soft grin that looks, yeah---happy. “Keith, Keith, Keith. Oh Keith. What am I going to do with you?”

 

“Well you can start by answering the phone when I call you,” Keith says. He doesn’t want to lose touch again.

 

“You’re not gonna call me,” Lance scoffs, as if the very idea is laughable.

 

“I am too!” Keith shoves the helmet on his head.

 

Lance smacks the handlebars of his hoverbike in contention. He raises a finger. “Name one time you’ve ever called _anybody_.”

 

Not a single instance comes to mind. “I’m going to start now,” Keith decides.

 

“I won’t be holding my breath,”

 

“You better,” Keith says, not even sure what he means at this point. “You better, Lance.”

 

Lance slides the visor of the helmet down, clicking it into place over Keith’s eyes. He rests his forehead on the front of it, so he can look directly into Keith’s eyes through the plexiglass. Keith holds his gaze. Lance keeps the eye contact for a moment, two, until he finally responds: “No you.”

 

At which point Keith shoves him off.

 

Lance laughs, bouncing on his feet. He starts towards his house with a lazy salute, like _catch ‘ya later._ As if they’ll see each other tomorrow. As if they won’t soon have lightyears between them. “Don’t fall out of the wormhole on your way back!”

 

Keith touches the visor of his helmet near his forehead, where Lance was pressed close. He smiles, ducking his head down as the bike revs underneath him. This time he’ll make it in three.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chances are if you’ve read any of my other fic, you recognized the Hasty Tasty. Somehow klance always find their way back to her, regardless of which au I put them in LOL 
> 
> I’ve been super careful not to read any post canon klance since i’ve been working on this fic, so I’m not sure how other writers are interpreting lance’s farmlife adventures. But, I gotta be honest, small town vibes are my jam so I really enjoyed this chapter. Next chapter, our favorite space cat squad is going to be together again :D so i’m excited for that too!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just for the record, dear reader, I personally think that the whole thing with curtis and shiro was a heckuva poor choice in writing. (if you can call it ‘writing’ considering it was a five second endcard, but anywho). Just like I think killing allura was absolutely the Wrong Way to Go. but!! this is a canonverse fic, so I’m following along with what we got, regardless of my opinion. Just wanted to put that out there. (shrug)  
> That being said, my marriage-is-an-outdated-institution-that-mostly-benefits-the-patriarchy, weddings-are-a-gigantic-money-sinking-scam, happily-single self was googling stuff like ‘wedding playlist’ and ‘most romantic beach wedding destinations’ and ‘what does the best man do’ for this chapter, so…I hope you enjoy!!!! lol

***

 

_ Bathroom, captain’s quarters, Deck A, USS Atlas, currently docked off the coast of Dhigu island, South Malé Atoll, the Maldives, Earth, Copernican System, Orion Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy. _

 

Keith raises his eyebrows. In the mirror, his reflection does the same. Hands poised over his hairline, with a comb at the ready, he squints. Seems okay. As a final test, he cautiously shakes his head back and forth. 

 

Not a hair budges out of place. 

 

Satisfied, Keith sets the comb down on the bathroom counter next to the hair gel. 

 

He rinses the sticky gel off his hands at the sink, giving his swept back hair and ponytail a side-eye the entire time. Combined with the gel and a few strategically placed bobby pins, it should be fairly secure. Probably. 

 

“Bathroom’s free,” he comments, opening the door into Shiro’s quarters. Normally perfectly tidy, right now the room looks as if a tornado of tuxedos and patent leather shoes has just swept through. A heady mix of cologne and aftershave and various hair products hangs in the air. 

 

“Finally! Dude, I was beginning to think you fell in or something,” Hunk jokes. 

 

Keith protests, “ _ You  _ try styling---” 

 

“I  _ know _ you’re not using the word ‘style’ when referring to  _ that _ ,” Lance says, standing up from his slouch against the nearest wall. He motions to Keith’s hair with both hands, palms open as if drawing a crowd’s attention to an actual travesty. 

 

“What’s wrong with it!” Keith retorts, careful not to make any sudden movements, lest it all come undone. Maybe he should add in a few more pins… “It’s a style!!” 

 

“Do you think you could have used a little more gel?” Lance asks him, serious. “I think this will only hold through a category _ four _ hurricane, and well,” 

 

“I don’t want it to get messed up, Lance!” 

 

“Guys,” Hunk interrupts, “You’re stressing Shiro out,” 

 

“It’s fine,” Shiro asserts weakly from his place on the bed. “At this point, I feel like I’ve been listening to Lance complain about Keith’s hair for the better part of my life, so, in a way, it’s calming.” 

 

“Always happy to help,” Lance winks and shoots a snappy finger gun in his direction. 

 

“Sorry Shiro,” Keith still feels the need to apologize. “I’m ready now, so is there anything you need me to do?” 

 

“Find a way to fast forward through the next six hours?” Shiro asks. 

 

Keith makes a sympathetic noise. Shiro does look a bit pale. He mutters something under his breath about projecting his consciousness into the nearest astral plane. 

 

“Aww man, don’t worry,” Hunk claps Shiro on the back. “Pre-wedding jitters are completely normal. My cousin threw up right before getting on the altar. And everything turned out okay for him.” 

 

The look that Shiro gives Hunk in response indicates that Hunk’s cousin’s gastrointestinal distress offers little comfort; it might actually be making things worse. Keith wonders for a moment if stress induced nausea is a genetically inherited trait, or if it’s more of a conditioned thing. Nature versus nurture and all that. 

 

“Alright boys, I hope you’re dressed.” Pidge bursts in the room, carrying a few boxes in her arms. “Everybody decent? Yes, Lance, I know you’ve never had that word applied to you, but---”

 

“Very funny, Pidge,” Lance snarks, giving her a chance to set the boxes down on the desk before tackling her into a hug. 

 

“You’ll wrinkle my suit!!” Pidge huffs as Lance squeezes her with all his might, so much so that her feet lift off the ground. She wheezes: “Lance!!” 

 

“It’s okay Pidgey, Keith can use some of his turbo-hold gel to smooth it back into place, crispy as cardboard, like his bangs---” 

 

Pidge snorts and Hunk giggles and Shiro laughs and Keith can’t quite contain a smile. 

 

*

 

Just a month ago, the five of them reunited for the first time since Lance left New Altea. 

 

Shiro called each one of them personally to let them know of his engagement to Curtis, well before the announcement went out to the rest of the universe. To be completely honest, it came as a shock---Shiro and Curtis hadn’t been dating that long. 

 

If left to his own devices, Shiro would have probably had a small wedding without much fanfare....but. Colleen Holt and Veronica McClain and  _ Coran _ got involved. One thing snowballed into the next and soon enough the event became a destination wedding with genetically idiosyncratic floral arrangements, and a live band from Zel Stev-5, and catering from a tiny little moon off Gorr’ag that’s known for being suuuuper gourmand, and a photographer highly recommended by the queen of Isentra…

 

As Shiro’s designated Best Man, Keith offered moral support but was otherwise hands off. (Alarmingly...so were Shiro and Curtis.) 

 

Most of the preparations for Shiro’s wedding were able to be done remotely---stuff like guest lists and catering and booking a venue and all kinds of other details Keith has never thought about---but deep space is no place for tuxedo buying, apparently. The suits were selected ahead of time, but these are special, fancy suits (more expensive than any other Earth clothes Keith has ever worn) and evidently that means they need tailoring. 

 

And so. The long awaited reunion of the defenders of the universe. They’ll all be together again. Not for peace. Not for the coalition. Not for Voltron. To get their pants hemmed. 

 

That day, Keith was the last to arrive to the fitting. He was as apprehensive about seeing everyone together as he was excited---Lance had cut ties with Hunk and Pidge almost completely since leaving. And, although Lance and Shiro spoke regularly, Lance seemed preoccupied whenever Keith tried calling him. Not that Keith was able to try all that often---the timing between them rarely worked out. Since Keith left Earth after visiting him, they’ve exchanged only a handful of words. And, well. It seems as though that’s how Lance wants it.  

 

There was a small part of Keith that doubted if Lance would really be there, even as he pushed open the door to their dressing room suite. 

 

But Lance has never let him down before. 

 

“Well, well, well,” Lance’s voice was the first to greet Keith as he walked in the room, “Fashionably late as usual. Look who finally decided to show up.” 

 

“Keith!!” Hunk rose up from one of the garishly pink colored cushions positioned in regular intervals around the room. (The entire building had a penchant for being horribly overdone---damask wallpaper, and rhinestones covering things that don’t need rhinestones, and terrible hot pink furniture.) “Man, it’s been too long.” 

 

Keith returned his embrace with enthusiasm. “It’s been awhile,” he agreed. 

 

“Longer for some of us than others,” Pidge commented. She was sitting close to Lance, with his arm on the couch behind her. 

 

“So if that’s a comment on me missing the first successful rift jump, Pidge, let me just say---” Hunk started---

 

“Okay, paladins, focus,” came Shiro’s voice from inside one of the dressing rooms. He opened the door, stepping out in a white tux. “What do we think? It’s a little tight around the chest---”

 

Lance interrupted him with an eardrum shattering wolf whistle. Pidge violently pushed Lance off the couch in retaliation. At which point, Hunk grabbed Lance’s foot and pulled him close enough to subdue him into a sleeper hold and clamp a hand over his mouth. 

 

“That’s not…really helpful.” Shiro said, surveying the scene. 

 

“Did you expect anything less?” Keith asked him. He stepped up to Shiro’s side, his profile as familiar and welcoming as it’s always been. “You look good, Shiro.” 

 

“Ouch!!” Hunk released Lance with a cry. “He bit me!” 

 

“Oldest trick in the book, my guy,” Lance drawled, bumping fists with Pidge as though this was a planned maneuver. 

 

Keith watched as Hunk fussed with Shiro’s sleeves and Lance argued with Pidge about their shoes and the four of them began a heated discussion about pocket squares. And he remembered:  _ “It’s like when you argue with your siblings, right? No matter what happens, at the end of the day, you still got each other’s backs, right?” _

 

There were no tearful apologies or drawn out explanations. There was no dramatic reunion---it’s just the five of them together again. Time and distance between them forgotten as everyone picks up where they left off. 

 

*

 

Here now in Shiro’s room before the wedding, Keith feels just as at ease. He shrugs on the suit jacket after Pidge squawks at him for not being completely ready. They have on matching black suits, with shiny black lapels, except for Shiro, who’s dressed all in white. Keith has been entrusted with the rings, and he carefully tucks the box into his breast pocket while everyone else puts the final touch on their outfits. 

 

“We’re right on schedule,” Pidge announces to no one in particular. 

 

“Oh man, now that we’re all dressed, I’m getting nervous too,” Hunk says, looking back and forth between Shiro and the others. “This is crazy, I mean,  _ marriage _ ,” 

 

“Marriage,” Shiro agrees, looking clammy. “Oh god, I don’t think I’m going to make it---Keith---” 

 

Keith squeezes his shoulder. “Shiro---”

 

“Okay, alright,” Pidge cuts the exchange short. “If you can have a miniature meltdown and put your boutonniere on at the same time, that would be best.” She indicates the boxes she brought with her. 

 

Obediently, Shiro stands still while she pins a tiny bundle of flowers to his lapel. Because they will never fully escape the Altean penchant for color coding things, his is all white, while Pidge’s is a vibrant green. Keith has a flower that’s black as night and Hunk’s is a buttery yellow.  

 

Only Lance has two---an arrangement of blue and red blooms, carefully intertwined. Lance must have chosen the design, but this is the first Keith has seen of it. The others too, seem to be taken aback. Conversation falls quiet. The mood of the room shifts into something heavy.  

 

With a light crinkling of tissue paper, Lance pulls it out of the box. Outside the room, there’s a muffled exclamation and laughter as crew members walk past, ready for the big event. Somewhere an air vent decompresses with a gentle hiss. 

 

“I miss her,” Shiro confesses, quietly breaking the silence. There’s a wet sound to his voice as he swallows around the words. “I wish she were here. Today especially.” 

 

Hunk nods. “Allura would’ve loved all of this. So much.” 

 

Pidge folds one of the the empty boxes into a smaller square. She inhales, audible, before agreeing with a tight, “Yeah.” 

 

Lance is fumbling as he tries to attach the flowers to his suit. Keith steps forward, taking the flowers out of Lance’s hands. “Let me.” 

 

Keith watches Lance’s throat, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows, lifting his chin. 

 

He takes the long pin, carefully lifting Lance’s suit jacket from his chest, making sure the flowers will lay right on the lapel. This close, Keith can feel the seep of his body heat through his starchy white button down. His knuckles brush over the shirt, just over Lance’s heart, and Keith inhales a shallow breath. “There,” he says. Palms flat, he brushes over the jacket, although it doesn’t need smoothed. “There, it’s on.” 

 

“Thanks Keith,” Lance says, head dipping down, voice low. One hand flutters close to the flowers, not quite close enough to disturb the arrangement. 

 

Keith nods, taking a step back. The room falls silent again, just the distant, ever present hum of the ship’s crystal generated power. 

 

“Serious question,” Lance clears his throat. He tosses his head towards Shiro’s open closet, where the shoes are lined up regulation neat. There’s a pair of sandals---the kind with the velcro straps that go across the top of the foot and behind the ankle. “Does Curtis know that he’s marrying a guy who wears socks with sandals?” 

 

Shiro groans. 

 

“Because, if not, he’s gonna have a rude awakening on his honeymoon.” 

 

“Lance,” Hunk’s voice is halfway between tears and laughter,

 

“No, seriously,” Lance continues, “I think I would wanna know---” 

 

“He knows!” Shiro says, exasperated and fond at the same time. 

 

“Does he know you  _ always _ cry at the end of romantic comedies?” Pidge asks, sly. 

 

Lance grins. “Or that you sing Destiny’s Child songs in the shower?” 

 

“Or literally said, and I quote, ‘milk chocolate and dark chocolate, what’s the difference, they both taste the same’?” Hunk raises his eyebrows. “Because, see, to me, that’s kiiiiindof a deal breaker.” 

 

“Hunk,” Shiro shakes his head, “You’re the only one who would care about that.” 

 

“No.” Keith interjects. “They are  _ way _ different, Shiro.” 

 

Shiro turns to him, mouth agape, utterly betrayed, “Keith!” He sets his hands on his hips, his go-to,  _ now listen to me _ pose. “Guys. Curtis knows all of this!” 

 

“Then you’ll be fine,” Lance says, catching Shiro around the shoulders. He steps forward, pulls Shiro close, cuffing the back of his neck to press a quick kiss to his temple. Close to his ear, he grins and commands: “Stop worrying.” 

 

“Lance.” 

 

Lance bats his eyelashes, “That’s the name, don’t wear it out,” 

 

“Thank you.” Shiro casts a look around the room. “Thank you guys, for doing this, for being here with me---for everything.” 

 

“Shiro.” Keith tilts his head, heart full, emotion in his voice. “We wouldn’t miss it. Not for the world.” 

 

“Now everybody out,” Lance smacks the entry pad next to the door. He shoo’s them forward. “We have a photographer to find, and I need to make sure they know to get my good side.” 

 

They troop out together, Lance crowing and leading the way. 

 

*

 

The ceremony itself is blessedly short. 

 

‘Blessedly’ because as soon as the officiator starts talking, Coran, seated in the front row just across from them, starts blubber-crying. Which means that Hunk starts blubber-crying and Pidge starts sniffling and Lance and Keith are left standing at the altar next to Shiro, looking at each other, mildly horrified. 

 

Keith finds himself getting very nervous about forgetting the rings---but he didn’t!!---and there’s a wild moment about halfway through, during which one of the tourists from the resort wanders onto their private beach, and Kolivan stands up and a bunch of Blade members appear out of nowhere and Keith thinks that the tourist is not going to make it. But the moment passed and, thankfully, no civilians were harmed during the wedding ceremony. 

 

Curtis and Shiro exchange their vows. Keith holds tight to the rings, until he doesn’t. The rings are given, the first kiss is shared, 

 

Keith privately thinks that no one is good enough for Shiro. 

 

No one could ever be good enough for Shiro---Shiro who is brilliant and kind, Shiro who is patient and generous and powerful. The man who shaped Keith’s life more than any other, who taught him to fly, to hope, to love. Shiro will always be an ideal that Keith strives to reach; no one could be good enough to marry him. 

 

But (and this has been a lesson long taught), Keith is finally starting to realize---even now as he watches Shiro lean close and listen to something Curtis whispers, eyes crinkled in happiness as they pose for photos after the ceremony---Shiro isn’t an ideal, he is a person. He has faults and fears and wants. And if Curtis answers those in a way that matches Shiro’s heart, well, then, how could Keith wish for anything more?

Curtis is a tall, quiet man. His eyes are a honey colored brown. When Keith first met him, Curtis blinked ever so slowly, brown eyes intense and true, like he was really listening and committing each syllable Keith uttered to heart. He has a remarkably good memory. He has steady hands. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, his words are spoken in a low voice, firm and slow, and chosen very carefully. He seems like a gentle person. 

 

Keith feels fiercely protective of Shiro. He feels too, fiercely protective of Hunk and Pidge and Lance. Keith used to think letting people in was hard. But maybe even harder is allowing the people you hold dear the freedom to leave. To change. To outgrow the narrow dreams you dreamt for them. You can’t hang on too tight. Keith is learning to loosen his grip. 

 

“Good evening, everyone.” Keith holds a champagne flute, hours later, when the ceremony is over and the photos have been taken and the food has been eaten. He addresses the crowd, the crew, his mother, his friends. “Thank you all for being here.” He takes a deep breath. “The first time I met Shiro, it was after I stole his Garrison issued ATV and took it for a joy ride, just because I could.

 

(Iverson groans and a few chuckles spread throughout the crowd). 

 

“Shiro saved me. Without him, I would have never learned to fly. I would have never met my closest, dearest friends.” On the word ‘dearest’ Keith falters; he can’t help but think about Allura and his breath catches for a moment. Hunk meets his eye and gives him an encouraging smile. When his heart steadies, Keith continues: “I wouldn’t have reunited with my mother.” Keith looks to Krolia, beautiful as she sits beside Kolivan, watching Keith with that same sanguine look she so often wore when they were just getting to know one another. “My life would have been a lot different if it weren’t for Shiro. 

 

“So many lives would have been different if it weren’t for Shiro. As the black paladin before me, and now as the captain of the Atlas, Shiro has been instrumental in the fight for good. He has always been a patient friend and a steadfast leader. A mentor,” Keith looks down, ducking his head for a moment. “A brother.” Keith turns towards Shiro, who looks equal parts embarrassed and proud. “We’ve come a long way Shiro. And we’ve had a lot of help. I wish you and Curtis nothing but happiness as you begin your journey together. The stars are lucky for your presence.” 

 

Keith raises his glass. “To Shiro and Curtis.” 

 

*

 

Afterwards, Keith finds himself with a different drink in hand, nodding along with the music from one edge of the room. Best man speech behind him, all of the day’s obligations are over and he feels that he can finally relax. The drink is a fruity one, sweet and strong, and Keith isn’t sure if Shiro had a hand in the bar’s menu, but the thought that he might have, and this kind of thing is his preference makes Keith wonder. 

 

Krolia is at a table not far from Keith, deep in a conversation with Curtis’ mother and Colleen Holt and a couple other women whom Keith doesn’t know, but are probably from Curtis’ side of the family. It seems like a serious conversation until Colleen throws back her head and laughs (in a way that looks  _ just _ like Pidge) and his mom wears a small smile. When they first met, Krolia’s tight-lipped, barely-smile didn’t seem like much, but after being with her, Keith knows how genuine it is. She’s earnestly enjoying herself, leaning close to Curtis’ mother and nodding along as Colleen talks. 

 

Shiro is curled up close to Curtis’ side as they shuffle gently between guests. Curtis is speaking in his soft, slow voice and Shiro is all boyish happiness, guileless and moony and content. 

 

Towards the dance floor, Hunk and Pidge have taken it upon themselves to teach Coran the electric slide. This is not going as well as it could, mostly because the band isn’t playing the electric slide, and also because Coran doesn’t listen. Pidge’s date, Ana Fischer (yes, of Müller-Fischer labs) is enthusiastically helping, but Ana seems to be confusing the electric slide with the macarena, and therefore the whole bunch are a mess of laughing and waving their hands and jumping around. 

 

Lance is also on the dance floor, but rather than dancing with the others, Curtis’ little sister and nephew have latched onto him with ferocity. The little boy is only four and Lance has him in his arms, and Curtis’ sister is ten. She was the flower girl for the wedding, and after Lance complimented her dress, she’s been following him around like a little duckling ever since. Lance is dancing with them both, laughing and breathless as he whorls them around the dance floor, red faced as he bumps into Iverson. He apologizes to Iverson, then takes a moment to say something---Keith is too far away to hear what it is, but he’s sure it’s awful, based on Lance’s grin---to Veronica and Axca who are slow dancing nearby. 

 

Keith smiles down into his drink. (The waitstaff have replaced the first one---or was it the second...or third?---with another, and it’s getting better with every sip). Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but Lance looked like a dream on the beach. The dark suit was rich against his warm colored skin. The backdrop of the ocean pulled every shade of blue into his eyes. He was close to Keith, tucking a hand against his back as they stood next to each other in the ceremony. They walked out and Lance’s fingertips brushed against his hand, catching it lightly for his attention as he smirked and made a comment that was only for Keith to hear. 

 

As if his thoughts are being broadcast, Lance looks over and spots Keith watching him. He makes a ridiculous show of waving Keith over, his long arms windmilling dangerously close to other people on the dance floor. Keith shakes his head. Lance puts his hands on his hips and thrusts his bottom lip out into a pout that’s visible even across the room. Keith takes another sip of his drink and raises his eyebrows in an unimpressed fashion like,  _ well, what are you going to do about it, then?  _

 

Lance huffs and squats down. He motions the flower girl close to him and whispers something in her ear before standing up and giving Keith a broad grin. Keith rolls his eyes. 

 

The little girl threads her way through the crowded dance floor and the tables, slowly making her way over to Keith. 

 

“Um.” Her shoes long abandoned, the girl pads over to him in white stockings. “Keith?” 

 

“That’s me,” Keith says, smiling as she pulls up a chair next to his and collapses into it. “What’s your name?” 

 

“Amy.” 

 

“Nice to meet you, Amy.” 

 

Amy gives him a bright smile, tucking her hands in her lap as she swings her feet back and forth. 

 

“Are you having a nice time?” Keith purposely ignores Lance’s side of the room, but he has a feeling that Lance is probably watching him for a reaction. 

 

“Mmhmm.” She thinks for a minute. “I’ve been dancing! And the cake was good.” 

 

Keith agrees. “I had three pieces.” 

 

This sits well with Amy. She smiles and then giggles like she’s just remembered a joke.

 

“What?” Keith asks, expression innocent. He leans back in his seat. “C’mon, what is it?” 

 

“Lance said to tell you,” she giggles again. 

 

“What’d he say?” 

 

“He said to say,” she can barely get the words out from her smile, “he said that he wants you to  _ cradle him in your arms _ .” 

 

Keith snorts and the little girl tosses her head back and laughs as though this is the funniest thing. 

 

“Well.” Keith drains the rest of his drink. “I better listen, huh?” 

 

She nods and scoots out of the seat, scampering away from Keith now that her message has been delivered. 

 

Keith stands---

 

Woah. 

 

Okay. 

 

Keith stands and abruptly realizes that he has had much more to drink than he realized. He blinks as the room swirls and then rights itself. 

 

Keith traverses the room, mindful of the chairs and the people who seem to keep crossing his path, and only stumbling a little. By the time he finally gets to Lance, he’s ready to admit that being upright is probably a mistake. That’s alright. He’s made mistakes before. Lance always helps him through them. 

 

“Woah, woah,” Lance catches on to Keith as they collide together. Lance has gotten rid of the suit jacket. The way his white sleeves are rolled up, revealing his wrists and forearms, seems unbearably sensual. Keith clasps on, enjoying the sharp contrast in their skin tones, and how his fingers wrap all the way around Lance’s wrist. 

 

“Are you drunk?” Lance asks him, smiling, as Keith gets even closer, pulling their bodies together into a slow dance. 

 

Keith laughs. “I’m just following directions,” 

 

Lance follows his lead, fitting against his chest perfectly. He says something and Keith doesn’t quite know what it was but he laughs again, because this all seems ridiculous. Lance huffs and the warmth of his breath tickles Keith’s neck. 

 

Keith feels his mouth work into the dopiest grin. His cheeks ache from smiling. Everyone he loves is safe and happy and here---Shiro and Hunk and Pidge and his mom and  _ everyone _ . And Lance---Lance is here, here in his arms. 

 

*

 

Keith wakes up to the smell of bacon and Lance’s voice. 

 

“Stop---okay, for real now. Gross!!! Stop drooling.” 

 

Still half asleep, Keith lifts a hand to his mouth. He’s not…?

 

“Kosmo, gross. Control yourself. There’s a puddle. It’s all over the floor.” 

 

Keith opens his eyes. Difficult to do, considering they feel like they’re stuck shut, all crusty and dry. 

 

He immediately regrets the decision. He doesn’t recognize the room but it’s bright. So bright. He regrets everything. His head is filled with an awful combination of needles and knives and the violent orchestra the paladins were subjected to that one time they landed on Ceznar-La. His mouth tastes like the weird sludge they had to wade through on Os’tsolth. He groans. 

 

“Oh!! Sounds like your dad’s awake.” Lance’s voice is sing-songy and loud. So loud. “Go on! Go get him!!” 

 

There’s a rumble and a scrambling clicking of claws on wood floors as the huge wolf launches herself across the room in an all-out sprint to Keith’s side. She knocks over a shelf and the crash makes Keith want to die. It’s so loud. It’s just. This is. The worst. 

 

The wolf buries her face in Keith’s hair and snorts, snuffling against his face and neck for a moment before she begins licking his cheeks in earnest. 

 

Keith pushes her away weakly, his eyes resolutely squeezed shut. He groans again. 

 

Lance laughs. 

 

Keith opens his eyes, this time to find Lance standing over him. He’s annoyingly perfect---his eyes are soft and kind, his posture is relaxed. His hair is tousled. With the bright lights behind him, he looks nothing short of celestial. Keith glares at him once before pulling himself into a sitting position. He’s on a couch, in what seems to be a living room. Bright sunlight pours in from a nearby window. 

 

“Fuck.” The word is thick in his mouth. His voice is the hissing edge of a rasp and hurts his throat. Keith doesn’t notice the blanket falling from around his waist as he dips his head into his palms. The pain is splitting. 

 

“Yeah, I bet.” Lance doesn’t sound even remotely sympathetic. 

 

Keith ignores him. 

 

“Oh awesome Lance, you’re so good to me! Even though I’m a terrible, grumpy paladin, and I wake up all broody and mean, here you are! So handsome and talented! A man among men, wonderful in your generosity, unmatched in your---” 

 

“Lance.” Keith all but growls. “Shut up.” 

 

Lance wags his finger. “Now, now, Keitharino. You know what they say: Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Or in this case, the hand that brings you pain reliever.” With a flourish, Lance produces two tablets and a glass of water. He offers them to Keith with a smile playing on his lips. 

 

Keith accepts, sluggish fingers grubbing the pills from Lance’s palm. He chugs the water and immediately grimaces as the liquid sloshes nauseatingly in his stomach. 

 

“Thank you, Lance, you’re the best, how can I ever repay you,” Lance continues, waving a hand. He answers himself, dramatically falling on one side of the couch Keith has been sleeping on. “Oh no problem, Keith. For you? Anything! Any time,”

 

Keith swallows down his nausea. The wolf has her large head in his lap and he squeezes her cheeks. He leans down, commanding her seriously: “Take me back to space where it’s quiet. Any system. Any galaxy. I don’t care.” 

 

Lance laughs. Keith glares at him again. 

 

Lance stops laughing, clamping his mouth shut. He stares at Keith as they make eye contact, expression serious. Until his lips twitch into a smirk and his cheeks puff out and, with a sound like pressure releasing from a tire, he positively  _ guffaws.  _

 

“What.” Keith pulls the blanket back up around his waist, realizing for the first time that he’s naked from the waist up. “What?”

 

“Your--your hair, dude,” Lance manages. “Oh my god, your hair.” 

 

Gingerly, on account of his headache, Keith touches his hair. The copious amounts of hair gel combined with the salty beach air and passing out on a couch have done him no favors. It seems to be sticking in every direction.  Realistically unable to tame it, and equally unable to string in coherent thought together, he spits the first thing that comes to mind: “Fuck you,” 

 

Which Lance seems to find just as funny as anything. He hauls himself to his feet and touches Keith on the shoulder as he passes him, walking back towards the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast. Bathroom’s down the hall and to the left.” He squeezes Keith’s shoulder as if his broad palm adds some hidden meaning to the words. 

 

Keith finds his way to the bathroom. The hall is narrow, there’s a worn rug on the floor and the walls are bare of any hangings. The bathroom too, is unadorned, except for a slew of jars and bottles all over the sink. Lance has laid out a towel and a change of clothes---comfortable looking sweatpants and a tee shirt that has the name of a school and the words ‘swim club.’ It’s dated almost a decade earlier. Keith never knew Lance swam, but he must have in high school. 

 

This is Lance’s house. Previous to now, Keith has only seen it from the outside, but. It must be. Keith puts this together, slowly, in the shower, as the pain reliever begins to work and he’s enveloped in a smell distinctly Lance. The shampoo he uses, and the body wash, and then the smell of his clothes---all warm and clean smelling, maddeningly familiar. Keith breathes deep,  indulging. 

 

He walks back to the kitchen, hairbrush in hand, as he works the tangles out of the ends. The Blades commonly wore their hair in long braids, and Keith isn’t too far from replicating the style. Especially when wet, it’s halfway down his back now. He tidies it as best he can, watching from the doorway as Lance hums, flitting from the fridge to the stove. 

 

The memories from the previous night are hazy. “How did we get from the Maldives to your house?” 

 

Lance shrieks, jumping backwards and brandishing a spatula between them. “Holy bajeezus Keith,” he presses a hand to his chest. “What have I told you about sneaking up on people?! Nearly gave me a heart attack, shit,” 

 

“Sorry,” Keith allows. 

 

Still shaking his head, Lance hands him a cup of coffee. He’s left room for cream. He indicates that Keith should sit at the small two-person table shoved against the wall of the kitchen, and slides him a bowl of sugar and a container of farm-fresh milk. 

 

Ignoring his question, Lance returns to the task at hand. He has a bunch of eggs cracked into a bowl; the skillet hisses with heat as he pours in the contents of the bowl, whisking at the same time. Lance moves fluidly---shoulders relaxed, one foot scratching at the back of his calf, hands fluttering in front of him as he adjusts the heat and pulls things out of cabinets. They’re not really talking, but the silence between them is familiar. Comfortable. Keith drinks his coffee and has the thought that he could wake up to this every morning and be content. It’s real and honest, the way it occurs to him, and it makes his chest squeeze and his eyes smart, just a little. He blinks and ignores it. 

 

The space wolf watches with interest as Lance snags a piece of bacon to munch while he pushes the eggs back and forth in the skillet. She’s big enough---hell, she practically sits shoulder high at this point---that she could easily sneak over Lance and steal the whole plate. Instead she thumps her tail against the floor and gives him her best puppy-dog eyes. 

 

“Is she allowed to eat people food?” Lance asks, tossing a look to Keith as he plates the scrambled eggs. 

 

Keith scoffs. As if he could stop her from doing anything. “She’ll eat whatever.” 

 

Lance mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _ spoiled’ _ (which is _ rich,  _ considering the lengths they sometimes went to make Kaltenecker comfortable in space), but nonetheless makes the wolf a plate as well. 

 

He sets a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Keith before retrieving his own, and sitting down across from him at the table. Keith watches as Lance dumps homemade salsa on his eggs and takes a bite, sighing blissfully around the fork. “S’it good?” he asks, motioning to Keith’s with a coffee cup in one hand. 

 

Keith has been too busy staring to take a bite. He does so now and nods, shoveling the food in with gusto. Lance grins. 

 

“Good for a hangover,” he comments. 

 

Keith feels himself tense. He didn’t intend to drink so much that he can’t even remember the night prior. He never expected to wake up with Lance---

 

“I have no idea how we got here,” Keith admits.

 

Lance motions to the wolf. “You whistled, and she appeared out of nowhere. Then you said “ _ Babygirl,”  _

 

Keith cringes at the pet name---he only calls her that when it’s just the two of them---

 

“ _ Take us home. _ ” Lance shrugs. “And then, the next thing I knew, you were drunk in my living room.” He finishes the last bit of his plate, smacking his lips with gusto. He affects nonchalance, closing his eyes and shaking his head, arms waving in front of him dramatically, “Honestly, if I would have known teleportation was an option, I could have saved a lot on airfare,” 

 

Keith frowns. Lance is kind---he’d do anything for his friends---but he didn’t deserve to be put upon like this. “Lance, I---” 

 

“Did you know you have a southern accent?” Lance interrupts him.  

 

Keith feels his expression darken. “I do not.” 

 

“Nooope, nope, you definitely do.” Lance is musing to himself. “I never would have thought you did either. But it came out when you were drunk.” He smiles “It was cute.”  

 

“I was born in Texas.” Keith says shortly. Even now, he never talks about his childhood. “But I moved around a lot after getting put in the system. I don’t have an accent.” 

 

Lance leans back in his chair with a smirk. He lifts his chin, narrows his eyes, purses his lips, cocky. He’s one-hundred percent confident that he has the ultimate finisher for this argument and a shit eating grin makes its way across his face: “You called me ‘Sugar,’” 

 

Keith feels his entire body heat as a blush crawls up his face. “You’re lying.” 

 

“You jus’ stay real close, Sugar, I got you,” Lance remembers, doing his best southern drawl. At Keith’s horrified face, he breaks out into a laugh. “Relax, relax. Dude, it’s not that big of a deal, you were just a little...affectionate,” 

 

Keith sinks his head into his hands. What the hell had he been thinking? “I--” 

 

“Honestly.” Lance drops the smirk, straightening up in his seat. “I saw you smile and laugh more last night than you have in the entire time I’ve known you.” He picks up their plates, stacking them together along with the silverware. “I’ve never seen you smile so much. It was nice.” 

 

Keith gives him a helpless look of confusion. “I made a fool of myself and took you away from the party and it was ‘nice’?” 

 

Lance rises from his chair, taking the dishes to the sink. “Hey man, better me than someone else.” He freezes, plates in hand. “I mean, you know,” he trails off. The back of his neck and tips of his ears are red as he piles the skillet and bowls and everything in the sink. 

 

Keith frowns, but Lance barrels onward, running the water in the sink to do the dishes. He clears his throat. “I was actually surprised you came alone,” 

 

“How is that surprising?” Keith says, getting up. Lance points to a kitchen drawer and Keith takes out a towel, ready to dry. 

 

“Hunk brought Romelle, and Pidge is with Ana,” Lance says. “Ronnie and Axca are getting pretty serious, Shiro is  _ married  _ now,” he shrugs. “Just figured,” 

 

Still reeling from the ‘Sugar’ debacle, Keith isn’t careful with his words. He snorts. “Somehow I don’t think Throx would be interested in Shiro’s wedding.” 

 

Lance’s hands pause. Keith might have missed it if they weren’t side-by-side, if he wasn’t watching the way Lance’s elegant fingers work through the stack of dishes. Lance resumes, swiping through the suds with renewed vigor. “So you  _ are _ seeing somebody,” 

 

Keith shifts his weight to one side, uncomfortable. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have. Lance hands him a bowl to dry, eyes fixed downward on the sink, not meeting Keith’s. 

 

Does it count as ‘seeing’ someone if Keith has never interacted with them in a room that doesn’t have a bed? Throx is the latest of several. He’s a galran who works adjacent to the Blade, but not quite close enough for them to have any mutual acquaintances, which Keith finds ideal. The sex is good, much better than Keith’s right hand anyways, but. That’s where the relationship ends. It doesn’t mean anything. 

 

He tells Lance as much. “I’m not. It’s. Just a physical thing.” He mumbles, taking the skillet from Lance to dry: “Doesn’t mean anything.” 

 

“Right, right,” Lance laughs and it sounds skittish. Dishes finished, he looks around the kitchen as if trying to decide what he can do with his hands. Finding nothing, they hover in front of him for a moment before he scrubs one through his messy hair. “Of course, typical Keith---” 

 

And that cuts because Keith  _ does  _ want it to mean something. It’s just that he wants sex to mean something with  _ Lance _ . Not with Throx or Jek or Krenmar or anyone else. With Lance. 

 

He wants to press his lips to the corner of Lance’s soft looking mouth. He wants to tease out every sound that Lance can make. He wants to touch. To run his hands over Lance’s broad chest, his narrow hips. To map out every freckle, to revel in his long legs, kiss against his knuckles. He wants to fuck him, slow and gentle, and trade sharp words with him afterwards, late at night, or early in the morning, before the sun even has a chance to rise. He wants to wake up next to him, natural as breathing, and do the dishes together after breakfast. He wants this. 

 

“Typical Keith,” Keith echoes. His head hurts. Anger wells up in him and it’s hard to push it back. He sets the skillet down on the counter and it’s more of a slam. The wolf twitches her ears, unimpressed. 

 

Keith takes a deep breath, trying to restrain his temper. He doesn’t want to fight. 

 

“Look man, I shouldn’t have---” 

 

“What about you, Lance?” Keith sneers, despite himself. “Who are you ‘seeing,’” 

 

Lance drops the pretense of being casual. His expression darkens into something pained. “You know I’m not---”

“Why not?” Keith demands. What he’s seen of the house is bare, empty. Lance is still living with ghosts. Memories. He acts like he’s fine, but what about sleepless nights spent walking under the stars? What about fumbling hands and red and blue flowers? Grief is thick and difficult, and Keith would never begrudge him anything he needs, of course, but wouldn’t it be easier if Lance didn’t insist on being all alone? Aren’t they better together? Now that Shiro’s wedding is over, is Lance going to withdraw again? Why ask about Keith’s relationships at all? 

 

Lance frowns. “You know why not.” 

 

“How would I know Lance?” Keith’s voice cracks and raises a pitch. “How would I know if you always turn everything into a joke or change the subject or  _ leave _ .” 

 

Lance laughs and it’s bitter. “Oh yeah, since you’ve always been Mr. Sharing is Caring. That’s our Keith, such a fucking chatterbox! We can’t ever get the guy to shut up, he’s just always blabbing about his feelings, just a---” 

 

“Lance.” Keith interrupts. He thinks about obviously fake smiles and less than honest answers and words left unsaid. He’s learning to let go. But with Lance, he just. He can’t. “You’ve always had my back. Always. Is it so crazy that I want to do the same for you?” 

 

Lance clenches his jaw. He blinks back what might be tears. “You have, Keith.” 

 

“No, I haven’t. You won’t let me!” 

 

“Yes I will!! I do!” 

 

Keith glares at Lance, threatening. 

 

Lance glares back, daring him to say something else. When Keith lifts his chin, challenging, Lance scowls. 

 

Keith scoffs, almost spitting with disdain. “This is the stupidest fight we’ve ever had.”  

 

“No, it’s not.” 

 

Keith throws the towel down on the kitchen counter and follows as Lance walks back into the living room. “Yes it is.” 

 

“No.” Lance flings himself down on the couch. “It’s not.” 

 

Keith crosses his arms. He slouches on the opposite end of the couch. 

 

Lance roots around the cushions, looking for the remote. “No it’s not. Remember the time we were stuck together on Temoha and we argued about whether the air tasted like onions or garlic for three-and-a-half varga until we were rescued?” 

 

“Air doesn’t even have a taste.” Keith shoves a hand under a pillow and finds the television remote. He holds it up above his head for a moment until Lance threatens to climb over top of him to grab it, at which point he hands it over. “Besides, it was onions.” 

 

Lance, having retreated back to his side of the couch, gives him a withering look. “Your tastebuds are broken.” He flips on the tv. “I bet if we went back  _ right now _ , you’d be like, huh, Lance was right.” He points to the wolf as an aside, “By the way, Babygirl, that was  _ not _ a request,”  

 

Keith ignores the heat that sweeps over his cheeks at Lance using his pet name for the wolf. “Pigs would also likely be flying.” 

 

“ _ Pigs would likely be flying _ , shut  _ up _ dude,” Lance flips through the channels, half smile on his face. It’s much better than the expression he had a few moments ago, hurt and defensive. “Oh perfect.” 

 

Keith takes one look at the movie Lance has chosen. “I’m leaving.” He gets up off the couch and walks to the other side of the room, picking up his clothes off the floor from where they’ve been discarded. (Definitely not considering how  _ that  _ happened). 

 

Lance watches him, head propped up on the back of the couch. “Now wait jus’ a rootin’ tootin’ minute, pardner,” 

 

Keith sighs, shaking his head. 

 

Lance straightens up, pointing to the three grizzled men on horses talking on the screen. They have on cowboy hats and guns and there’s tumbleweeds and, 

 

“These are your  _ people _ , Keith,” 

 

“They are not!” Keith stops folding his clothes to watch the movie for a moment. One of the men enters a saloon, and all of the other guys stop talking. Tensions are high. It seems like there might be a fight. The crankiest one fires first---

 

“That’s you,” Lance whispers. 

 

Keith chokes out a laugh. “Please.” He checks his comm to see a couple of missed messages from Hunk and one from Axca. Keith sits back down on the couch and types out a response: 

 

_ Spending the day with Lance. Will return to the Atlas by 2200. Thanks -K. _

 

In the Western, one of the guys gets captured and is going to be thrown in the county jail. “That’s you.” Keith tells Lance, serious, as the guy submits to handcuffs and is led away. 

 

Lance raises his eyebrows. He turns to Keith and shoots a finger gun. “As if I wouldn’t be the sharpest shot in the West,” he blows off the tip of his finger before re-holstering the imagery gun. 

 

(Keith is inexplicably charmed.) 

 

“True.” Keith watches for a few more minutes, settling back into the cushions. He pulls a pillow into his lap and props his legs up on the couch between them. Lance’s couch is worn, but comfortable. The good guys in the movie really have their work cut out for them, it seems. When one of them falls for an obvious trap, Keith and Lance both throw their hands up, 

 

“What the hell!!!” 

 

“That was so obvious!!” 

 

Keith crosses his arms. “They should get a new leader.” He tosses his head, getting his bangs out of his eyes so that he can see better. “And swords.” 

 

Lance pats his ankle, consoling. “We’ll find a samurai movie next.” 

 

“Oh joy,” Keith says. He notices that Lance’s hand is still resting over his leg. His hand is warm, and Lance’s thumb will occasionally stroke light circles over his skin. Keith doesn’t pull away. 

 

The wolf lies down next to the couch and falls asleep. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never watched a western in my entire life  
> Fun fact: this chapter originally ended with klance fighting For Real, and it was a mean and nasty thing, but aiyah, I just couldnt do it. I’m tired of the slow burn as much as you all are, probably more. Just kiss already, damn it! Lol but we are nearing the end 
> 
> so I have an idea: would you be interested in a bonus ficlet that is lance’s pov of drunk!keith from this chapter? The concept for this chp is that keith kinda blacked out, so I couldnt write it here, but maybe you are curious about what happened that keith doesnt remember? also it would be very self indulgent for me---soft and angst free, pining Lance and silly keith. Please let me know in a comment if you would like to read that ficlet. Or maybe you would prefer to know what happens next in this story, so you just want me to keep moving forward and work on chapter 18 right away? Anyways lmk!! Ty!!
> 
> edit: it has been written!!! [sugar, sweetheart, babygirl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18390476). if you do read it, prepare for a fluffy silly fic <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the support for drunk keith lol I had a lot of fun writing the bonus chapter! And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming:

***

 

_ Darkroom, lower dock of the Kestrel, Keith’s personal ship, en route to the Rokston dossier satellite, A’rinam system, third branch of the Promia Galaxy.  _

 

There’s just the right amount of give in the floor mats under Keith’s socks as he shuffles in front of the work bench. A little squishy, a little bouncy---perfect. Keith is  _ almost _ dancing, light on his feet as he develops a roll he shot during the Blade’s most recent amelioration project. It’s been a little while since he had the spare time to indulge and he’s in a good mood. The acrid smell of the chemicals calls to mind pleasant memories of his high school photography class; the teacher in charge of the elective was kind to the quiet boy who asked for extra time in the darkroom after school. The only place Keith felt truly relaxed his sophomore year. That was a year before Shiro came to the school to canvass for new Garrison recruits. Long before Keith ever dreamt of space. 

 

He hums under his breath, hips swaying along with the music as he moves the freshly exposed photo from the developer into the stop bath. He rocks the tray with one hand, leaning over and turning up the radio with the other. 

 

“....she’ll see I’m not so tough, just because, I’m in love...” Keith raises the tongs to his mouth like a microphone and belts out the next part: “with an UPTOWN GIRL…” 

 

Keith doesn’t remember the teacher’s name, but he thinks she’d be surprised at how adept he’s become at the hobby. She might be even more surprised at the subject material of his photos. Back then he shot landscapes, empty rooms, expensive cars he felt nervous to approach. Not now. The details of this photo develop crystal clear, even in the soft, red light of the darkroom. It’s a pair of siblings, just recently reunited after being separated during the war. The girl is smiling at the camera, beaming, but it’s her little brother that Keith was glad to capture. He’s holding his older sister’s hand, and looking up at her with an expression that says, ‘I’m home. I made it.’ 

 

The pair are from Buzl, a metropolis on a little planet at the far edge of the Tnasj system, and they look anything but human, but their expressions. They’re universal. Made of the same stars and the same love as anyone else. 

 

_ “....you know I’ve seen her in her uptown world:  _

 

_ She’s getting tired of her high class toys,  _

 

_ And all the presents from her uptown boys, _

 

_ She’s gotta choi---” _

 

The radio (which is not a radio at all, but actually a fun bit of software that Pidge wrote especially for Keith as a birthday present last year) cuts off abruptly. 

 

**“Incoming transmission. Incoming transmission.”**

 

Keith takes the print, now fixed and washed, and hangs it with the others he shot. He slips out the door, gathering his hair into something resembling a top-knot as he trots down the halls of his ship towards the cockpit. “Accept transmission,” Keith calls out, settling down cross-legged into the pilot’s seat. His eyes float to the autopilot, checking the controls as a matter of course. He makes a few minute changes, hands moving more or less without thinking, as the long range call connects. 

 

Shiro’s face unfurls on the wide screen in front of him. 

 

And Keith tenses in the seat, unfolding his legs, back at once ramrod straight. His hands tighten over the armrests. “Shiro? What’s wr---did something happen?” 

 

There are tear tracks on Shiro’s face. He’s galaxies away but Keith leans forward as if to reach through the screen and comfort him, defend him, fight for him---whatever he needs. 

 

Shiro shakes his head, mouth trembling. He tries for a smile, the edges of his eyes welling tears, and looks to his side as Curtis sits down next to him, barely in frame. 

 

Shiro holds up a thick manila envelope, the top edge torn open with none of the precision that Shiro would normally employ. Keith sucks in a breath. 

 

“Is that…?” 

 

Nodding, Shiro covers his face with the envelope. When he lowers it, he inhales one shaky breath. He exhales. And says: “The adoption.” 

 

Keith’s heart jumps in his chest; he sits, frozen, waiting, 

 

Shiro continues, voice breaking, “Gonna be a dad,” 

 

Keith chokes out a sound of happy disbelief, hand over his mouth,

 

Curtis leans close to Shiro, murmuring something that Keith doesn’t catch. Shiro shakes his head, squeezing Curtis’ hand before he looks at Keith and repeats with a watery smile: “Keith. I’m going to be a dad.” 

 

Keith collapses back in the chair, looking up to the ceiling as his eyes flutter. He runs both hands through the crown of his hair, smiling so wide. When he finds the voice to talk, the words come out unsteady, but warm: “Shiro. Curtis. Congratulations. You guys…” Keith shakes his head, at a loss. 

 

No matter the words, Shiro has always understood what Keith means. He presses the envelope with his fingers, tears spilling over the edges of his eyes as he smiles. “A dad. Keith, I, you know I  _ never _ ...with my illness, and then being taken, the war---everything. I never thought---I never dared to  _ hope _ . But. I always wanted---” 

 

Keith nods, jaw clenched. Shiro rarely talked about his poor health when he was younger, and he’s never liked to share any of his trauma at the hands of the Galra or throughout their time as Voltron. He’s been closed mouth about the adoption process too, but Keith knew how important it was to him. To Curtis too. Even as the two of them have taken the Atlas to the far reaches of the universe, personally they’ve been working for a very simple goal. They just wanted to adopt a child. 

 

Curtis takes the envelope from Shiro’s hands and pulls out the folder inside. He opens it, flipping through the many pages until he finds the one for which he’s looking. He reads off some of the details about the little girl, his voice gentle as Shiro collects himself. 

 

Shiro fumbles with his comm, pulling up a better picture than the tiny one included in the packet. “This one is from just this morning,” he says, voice choked with feeling. His eyes linger on the picture before he turns the screen around to show Keith. 

 

A baby girl smiles at the camera from a highchair. Her tiny hand is blurry, fat little fingers waving at the viewer. 

 

“She’s perfect,” Keith says, thumbs rough over the corners of his eyes to wipe away wetness. Curtis tells Keith that she is less than a year old and that they’ll have full custody of her within the month. 

 

Flipping through the pictures on his phone, Shiro expression shifts from love to awe. “I can’t believe it,” he says, smiling through the tears. “Me. A dad.” He laughs, quiet and self-deprecating. “I keep thinking they’ll change their minds. There’s no way I’m cut out for---” 

 

Keith shakes his head, interrupting. “Shiro.” There’s no one in the universe more worthy than Shiro. No one better. “This won’t even be the first orphan whose life you’ve saved.” He says it without thinking, matter-of-fact. 

 

Shiro’s words hitch. He pauses, affected. “Keith…” 

 

Curtis looks to Keith as well, smile soft on his lips. “It’s very early after the news, but Shiro and I had something we wanted to ask you.” 

 

Shiro swallows, looking from Curtis’ face to Keith. He inhales, steadying himself. “Keith. If. If it’s alright with you, we’d like to name you next-of-kin.” He smiles. “Her godfather, basically.” 

 

Keith is unprepared for the rush of emotion that overtakes his chest. 

 

He’s wholly unprepared for the immediate catching of his throat, the way his mouth trembles. They  _ want him there _ , to be in their child’s life, like a father for her, like family. Close and for always. Tears roll down his cheeks, immediate and unbidden. “Shi--” His voice is small and wet and wobbling. He ducks his head, mouth pressed together, trying to listen to what Shiro is saying: 

 

“...if anything ever happened to us, she’d be safe with you. We know you’d take care of her---” 

 

“Nothing is gonna happen to you,” Keith manages to choke out. He’s nodding, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. “Of---of course, Shiro. I---Of course.” He sucks in a breath and says with everything in his heart at once, “I’m honored.” 

 

Then both Shiro and Keith are crying---Keith’s heart is so full. The space wolf sneaks up on him and snuffs at his wet cheeks and Keith jumps, startled, and they’re laughing, all three of them. Keith swipes at his face with his shirt sleeve and realizes he can’t stop smiling. Curtis laughs his soft chuckle and Shiro tucks himself close to Curtis, beaming and happy. The space wolf all but crawls into Keith’s lap, even though she’s massive. 

 

Keith tries for more details, like the baby’s name (Luara, an Altean word) and when they’ll be able to see her (soon---they’re en route back to Earth now) and will she live with them on the Atlas (yes! They already have a room prepared and they’ve baby-proofed the common areas) and have they told the others the good news (not yet; Keith was the first person they called). 

 

They talk for a long time, longer than their schedules usually allow. Curtis slips out, needed on the bridge. 

 

Keith gets his fill of the details of the Atlas crew, what new worlds they’ve visited, updates on crewmates and the little everyday things that he hasn’t heard about yet. Rizavi almost caused an interplanetary war after an incident on Yoltzor. Kinkade’s first documentary piece won three awards and is in the running for a forth. Iverson might retire this year, but he’s probably just saying that. Slav is still Slav. 

 

The Blades have just completed a development project and many of them are back on Daibazaal for some much needed downtime before they head to another system. Keith is gathering information regarding political unrest in the neighboring quadrant. He needs to know that the next mission will be reasonably safe before he takes his team there. 

 

Shiro is not unfamiliar with the situation. “Keith. Be careful. From what I’ve heard of the Qej, even Zarkon himself chose not to get involved.” 

 

Keith waves his hand. “Most of the rumors are blown out of proportion. The galra were their main source of revenue, so the syndicate is largely divided after Admiral Yrizla was bagged for war crimes.” He shrugs. “Ghoj hasn’t been seen for years.” 

 

Shiro doesn’t look convinced. 

 

Keith purses his lips, not quite a smile. “You think I can’t handle myself, Commander?” 

 

Shiro shakes his head. “It’s not that. If the Qej group is still active, and you find them? It’s them I’m worried about.” He smirks. “I’ve heard the black paladin is a bit of a hothead.” 

 

“He can be a real pain in the ass.” Keith sits back in the pilot’s seat, crossing his legs. “Not bad with a sword though.” 

 

Shiro raises his eyebrows and Keith tilts his head. His face splits into a snort, and then they’re both grinning, stupid with happiness. 

 

“Keith---” 

 

**“Warning. Neutrino burst detected in sector four-zero-six. Destructive event predicted---”**

 

Keith pulls up the solar logs as the automated voice repeats the warning. “Sorry, Shiro. Looks like I have to go.” 

 

**“---detected in sector four-zero-six. Destructive event predicted. Immediate evasive jump recommended. Immediate evasive---”**

 

“Does the Kestrel even have wormholing tech?” Shiro asks, brow furrowed with concern. 

 

Keith shifts the helm from autopilot to manual. “She doesn’t need it.” He curls his fingers in a wave and signs off, with the promise of messaging Shiro later. 

 

The screens around him flashing, Keith gets comfortable in the pilot’s seat. 

 

“Alright, babygirl, hang on tight,” he instructs the space wolf. His hands move over the dash with perfect, precise movements. Looks like a helluva storm will be following the burst. A lesser pilot would almost certainly be crushed by debris. A more conservative individual would pause. Maybe turn back. Find another route. Keith is not a lesser pilot. And he’s never been accused of being conservative. 

 

“Babyyyyygiirl,” Keith sings, pushing the throttle forward. The Kestrel is fast (nearly as fast as Red) and sleek and he loves flying her, “She’s been living in her space ship wooorld,” 

 

The wolf wags her tail, 

 

“Bet she never had a pilot guy, bet her mama never told her whyyyy,” 

 

Keith grins as the wolf licks at his hair. The computer recommends something, but Keith overrides it and turns the radio back on. 

 

*

 

_ Docking Bay One, main aircraft hangar of the USS Atlas, just outside the Eplar system, Milky Way Galaxy.  _

 

Two months later,

 

Keith jumps out of the Kestrel before the landing ramp even touches the floor inside the Atlas. His arrival is anticipated, so a number of crewhands are at the ready, approaching to perform standard homecoming protocol. 

 

“Oram, Daniels!” Keith greets the two officers he knows, looking around at the vast assortment of ships docked inside the hangar, before settling on their familiar faces. 

 

(Lance is probably coming via mini-wormhole, with Pidge, so it’s unlikely any of these ships belong to him, but. It doesn’t hurt to check.) 

 

(It’s worth noting that Pidge’s groundbreaking scientific breakthrough was dubbed ‘mini-wormhole’ by Hunk two minutes after he set eyes on it in person: “Pidge!!! I knew it was like, amazing, but I didn’t know it would be so cute!! It’s fun-sized! Mini!! A mini-wormhole!” Sensing that she disliked the name, Lance has made sure to call it a ‘mini-wormhole’ at every opportunity. Unfortunately for Pidge, the nickname stuck). 

 

“Captain Kogane, sir, glad to have you aboard.” Daniels gives him a salute. 

 

Keith returns the gesture, but he isn’t much for formality. “Drop the title, Daniels. How’ve you been? I hear you’ll be behind the helm of one of Shiro’s cutters on the next longmission?” 

 

Oram pipes in: “Just last week, she beat Griffin’s scores on the reg space run, sir! Shoulda seen his face!!” 

 

“Damn,” Keith is impressed. He pulls his eyes from the hangar’s entryway (Lance isn’t there, either) to give the ensign an honest smile. She’s due for a rank promotion. “That’s really something. Good for you.” 

 

“Thank you, sir.” Daniels stays professional, but more than a hint of blush crosses her cheeks. 

 

“But then!!---”

 

Daniels elbows Oram in his ribs. “He’s too busy for all that,” she hisses under her breath. “Sir, if you’d like, I can show you to---”

 

Keith raises a hand. “I know my way around, thanks.” He gives Oram a pointed look. “The Kestrel’s sweet tempered and she doesn’t need any bells and whistles. If you want to, standard maintenance check, _ only. _ ” These engineers love to tinker. 

 

Oram pouts. “Hunk said you’d tell me that. A guy upgrades a refrac fuel line  _ one time _ , and suddenly everyone---” 

 

“And I recommend you don’t poke around inside either.” Keith grins, toothy. “I’m leaving my wolf behind and she,” he chomps, indicating a fearsome bite. “So. Be careful. (The space wolf would never….but they don’t need to know that. Terror of what lurks inside will keep Keith’s personal space private. And the look on the ensigns’ faces is  _ priceless. _ )  

 

Gulping, Oram nods. “Yes, sir.” 

 

Keith waves goodbye, but not before reminding Daniels to send him an update after her first active duty flight to tell Keith how it went. She beams, blushing deeper, and promises she will. 

 

Keith walks with purpose, his boots rapping out quick steps down corridors he knows by heart. The Atlas is bound for a supply hub just inside this system, and after that, she’ll be entering deep space again. The upcoming mission is set to last the better part of the next three years. Everything aboard the ship is abuzz with activity; but, even so, plenty of friendly faces pause to greet Keith as he makes his way towards the common room on the same deck as the quarters for the paladins and other ranking officers. 

 

He steps out of the elevator, looking around, almost cautious now that he’s close. Without realizing it, his ears are perked for one voice in particular. (But...no. That abrasive inflection, Lance’s braying laugh, the cutting edge of his banter, always two shades too loud---Keith would have heard it by now if he were here. He’s not.)

 

In this part of the ship, not much has changed. The hallway to his old room, the mess hall, the---

 

Keith stops, peeking in the door to the mess hall after catching a different voice altogether. Hunk isn’t the kind of guy who sings while he works, but he’s not quiet either. His back is turned and he moves with practiced ease in the large kitchen, vigorously whipping the contents of a bowl while he appears to be explaining something to an audience of space mice. 

 

It seems that Shiro has outfitted Hunk’s kitchen with everything a gormound from any galaxy could want. It’s big and fancy and sparkling. There’s appliances on the counter for which Keith can’t even guess the uses. Keith shifts, closer to the door, but not yet inside, 

 

Hearing the automated door slide open, Hunk motions over his shoulder without turning around, “Hey, Romelle, pass me the Fasmelian capur, will ya?” 

 

Keith looks around at the counters and picks up the first thing that seems...like that. He crosses the room and hands it to Hunk. 

 

“Thanks,” Hunk hums, lost in thought. He looks down at his hands and frowns. “This isn’t…” He blinks. The whisk slows in the bowl he’s mixing. 

 

“Sorry?” Keith offers. 

 

“Keith!!!!” Hunk turns around with the widest grin. “I should have known! Nobody else would confuse a Fasmelian capur with a Magel musturner!! Dude!!! It’s so good to see you,” 

 

Keith smiles, 

 

“Oh man, terrible timing though,” Hunk says, looking genuinely distraught. “I can’t stop to give you a hug right now. This has to be aerated for exactly 568 ticks,” he lifts the bowl, still whipping away, “Otherwise we’ll be eating some pretty flat cloud cakes. And they’re supposed to be cloudy, duh, so that would just be, y’know, the worst.”

 

“Terrible,” Keith agrees. “What should I do to help?” He’s no Romelle, but he can probably do  _ something.  _

 

“Mmm,” Hunk switches the whisk-like tool to his other hand and rattles off a list. “Let’s see. The Pegulian jellies are already set, and the steamed bisk, buttered ell, and memant roast are all good to go. I just put the reley in the oven, so,” his jaw works back and forth, calculating, “I think, nothing?’ 

 

“Sounds...like a lot.” 

 

Hunk shrugs. “It’s Luara’s big day. Things have to be perfect!!!” 

 

Keith raises his eyebrows. The little girl is less than a year old. Can she even eat all this stuff?

 

Apparently Hunk knows him well enough to read his mind: 

 

“Don’t give me that look, Keith! I’ll have you know she has a  _ very  _ refined palate for her age!!” 

 

“Okay, okay,” Keith raises his hands in admission. “I’m sure it’s all….completely necessary.” He breaks into a smile. “Thanks for cooking, Hunk. I can’t wait to eat your food again.” 

 

Hunk gives him the biggest smile in response. Eventually he stops whipping and begins a complicated looking procedure of siphoning the batter into pastry bags. He gives Keith a task to complete which may or may not be just to keep him occupied so that he doesn’t get in the way. Content with the busy-work, Keith does as he’s told, listening to Hunk rattle off Luara’s favorite foods now that she doesn’t only use formula, and all the precious things she’s done so far during her first month aboard the Atlas. The space mice augment his story with their own squeaks of explanation. 

 

“...just last night, dude I wish you would have been there, it was so cute, she got all sleepy after her bath, and her nose does this  _ thing, _ ” Hunk waves his hand, sighing at the memory. “Oh I almost died. Oh it was so cute.” 

 

“I can’t believe I finally get to meet her,” Keith says, a little nervous. 

 

Hunk claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry Keith. I’m sure she’ll love you. Anyways, you can’t be worse than Romelle. Every time she’s in the same room as the baby, poor Lulu just starts wailing.” 

 

Keith winces, alarmed. He didn’t even realize that that the baby not liking him was a possibility. Hunk continues talking, either unaware of Keith’s trepidation, or not overly concerned. 

 

Once the cloud cakes are sufficiently poofy and all the other food is ready to go, Hunk joins Keith in walking towards the common room. They hear Pidge and Coran before they see them: 

 

“Excellent work, Number Five, if you want it to be wonkier than a wimworm’s backside.” 

 

Pidge sighs. 

 

“Move it a little to the left.” A pause. “No!! Your other left,” 

 

“There is no other left,” Pidge snaps, holding a pink streamer over her head. She’s standing on the back of the couch and trying to attach it to the archway over the door. She moves to the right and the couch wobbles precariously. 

 

“Careful not to tip over, now!” Coran chirps, helpfully. 

 

“Uhh,” Hunk looks up at Pidge in the doorway. “You doing okay there?” 

 

“What does it look like?” Pidge says, exasperated. Her face is all red from reaching. 

 

Keith steps up behind her and takes the decoration. He pastes it on the wall. “How’s that?” 

 

Relieved, Pidge hops down from her perch on the back of the couch. She looks at the wall and pushes her glasses up her nose. “I mean, Luara’s not going to know the difference anyways. It looks fine.” 

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that! Smart as a whip, that girl,” Coran disagrees. He jumps---far too nimble---to join Keith. Shooing him away, he makes the most minute adjustment to the ribbon. “There we have it. Perfect.” 

 

“Why didn’t you do it yourself from the beginning,” Pidge shakes her head. 

 

That would have been too easy. Keith watches with mild amusement as the three of them bicker over the rest of the room’s decorations. It’s a kind of happy teasing, the arguments you fall back into with the people you know too well. 

 

The once minimalistic common room has been completely transformed. There’s stuffed animals on one of the couches, and a few toys spread over the floor. Baby books stuck near the datapad charging dock. The clean white walls are decorated with streamers---pink and yellow and blue---and balloons, and someone made a banner that says in big block letters, “Welcome home, Luara!” 

 

The food gets brought in---way too much---and Shiro and Curtis should be here soon, they’re almost done on the bridge, and---

 

_ Where is Lance?  _ Keith frowns despite the happy surroundings. If Lance didn’t fly alone, and he didn’t come with Pidge, is he not coming? 

 

He’s been better, since the wedding. Kept in touch. Now in addition to his weekly calls with Shiro, he frequents the Holts’ lab, chats with Hunk regularly. Keith has never been the best at communication, but they’ve both made more of an effort the past year. It’s worth it---staying up late to coordinate with Earth time, rearranging his schedule, waiting through the lag of the long range connection---it’s worth it, to see Lance smirk, cheek resting against his knuckles as he drones, “So what’s cracking, Keith-y boy?” 

 

(And even though their calls are never long, and even though it’s not the same as being with him in person, it’s still good. It’s so good to see his ever expressive brows jump as he tells a story, or hear him curse after he accidentally drops the comm, or notice that his floofy hair is long enough to curl around his ears. It’s good.) 

 

But. 

 

This would be the first time that Lance has been back in space since he left. The first time that he would truly be spending time aboard the Atlas again. In some ways, maybe, it’s a lot to ask. 

 

“There she is!! The woman of the hour!!!” Coran calls, springing to his feet as Shiro and Curtis appear in the doorway.

 

“Keith,” Shiro says, spotting him immediately at the edge of the room. “Come say hello,” 

 

The baby is nestled against Shiro’s chest, small enough to be held with just one arm. She has big brown eyes, and the suggestion of dark hair spilling from her head. 

 

“Hi there,” Keith breathes, leaning forward, keeping his voice soft. “My name is Keith. It’s nice to meet you.” 

 

And she smiles at him. And Keith’s heart melts. 

 

“Here,” Curtis takes her from Shiro and gently arranges Keith’s arms. And before Keith knows anything else, he’s holding her. 

 

She’s heavier than she looks, a chunky baby, but still so light. Too light to be a whole person, surely? But here she is, miraculously so. She smiles up at Keith, squirming just a little. She reaches for his hair, wrapping a tiny hand----she has itty bitty fingernails!!---around the end of his braid. Keith’s heart clenches and he finds he doesn’t know the words. She really is perfect. 

 

“Shiro,” Keith sighs, without taking his eyes off her. “She’s…” 

 

“I know.” Shiro says, all proud and happy and understanding. “I know.” 

 

Keith rocks her in his arms, just slightly, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. She smells baby sweet, all powdery and fresh. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’d cross the universe to keep her safe. “Luara,” 

 

“Alright, alright, everyone calm down, I’m here. The party can start now,” an annoying and completely unmistakable voice crows from down the hall. 

 

Keith turns just in time to see Lance waltz through the door. “Next time,” he’s telling Pidge without any prompting, “Let a guy know that the mini-wormhole has a layover in Atlanta. I almost missed my connection.” 

 

“You’re so full of shit,” she says fondly, smacking his chest before pulling him into a hug. She whispers something into his neck and Lance nods and holds her close. 

 

His hands are full---a bouquet in one, and a gift bag in the other. The flowers are daisies. 

 

He looks up from Pidge’s hug and meets Keith’s eyes from across the room. “Ah!!!! There!!!” 

 

Lance lets go of Pidge and walks up to Keith. “The light of my life!! The most beautiful, the most precious, my sweet, my angel!!!” Passing the flowers to Shiro and bestowing the giftbag on Curtis, Lance stops in front of Keith. “Not you,” he says with a smirk. And he scoops Luara up. 

 

She regards Lance, blinking at this anomaly of a person with large, questioning eyes. And Lance lifts her up and blows a big raspberry on her tummy. 

 

The baby lets out a delighted shriek before giggling and kicking out her chubby legs. Lance grins and repeats the gesture. He holds her close and bounces her in his arms. The little girl is utterly charmed. 

 

“She likes him,” Keith notes, half smile on his face. 

 

“Oh god, she likes him,” Shiro groans, turning to his husband. “We have to compete with Lance now.” Curtis smiles and tilts his head, not even a little worried. 

 

“There’s no competition,” Lance says, happily nuzzling his face against hers. “All kids love Lancey Lance. Let’s face it. Favorite uncle? There’s no competition. Right Luara?” 

 

She gurgles and smiles, in wholehearted agreement. 

 

“Sorry I was late,” Lance says, setting the baby on his hip, completely at ease. “I stopped by a friend’s house and we got to chatting. She sent me with a gift though,” he motions with his free hand towards the bag he brought. 

 

Curtis lifts a crocheted blanket---a pretty shade of lilac---out of the bag with careful hands. 

 

“Hot off the presses,” Lance says. “She rushed to finish it for the party today.” 

 

“Lance.” Shiro pulls Lance into a hug. “Thank you. We’ll be sure to send something back to show our gratitude.” 

 

“Come visit instead,” Lance says. “You guys are mega busy, but.” He shrugs, like it means nothing that he’s opening up an invitation after being withdrawn for so long. “Norma would love you.  _ Especially you, _ ” he finishes in a cooing voice, poking the end of Luara’s nose. 

 

“We’ll take you up on that,” Shiro says, voice warm and full. 

 

And then Coran can’t resist a moment longer and dives into the group to steal Luara away. He jets her away as if she’s flying, making a crazy zooming noise. The baby laughs and Lance lifts his eyebrows and looks at Keith. Keith blinks and shakes his head like,  _ hell if I know, _ and the two of them share a smile. 

 

Everyone starts talking at once, eager to catch up. Hunk and Lance and Keith move to the couches, but Pidge and Shiro are still listening in---several conversations together, overlapping and drifting apart. Veronica shows up, and Axca is not far behind. Matt arrives with his computer, who is also his girlfriend, and the rest of the Holts are there as well. Suddenly things get much louder. 

 

The baby fusses, but it’s just for a moment. Because Pidge knows exactly what she needs and is quick to entertain her with silly faces while Shiro grabs a bottle. Hunk insists on feeding her and Coran starts a long winded explanation about Altean baby culture that is probably not true, but that Curtis politely prolongs. 

 

The group is loud and happy and full of Hunk’s delicious food. The cloud cakes are perfectly cloudy. Luara gets put down long enough to crawl away and Keith is astounded that someone so little can be so fast. At one point, she looks like she might pull herself into a standing position---conversation falls silent, everyone holding their breath while they watch. At least four people whip out their phones to take pictures. She doesn’t get very far with the effort but Colleen Holt and Veronica and Coran coo over her like she’s a tiny little genius. Shiro preens like he just won an interplanetary arm-wrestling competition. 

 

It’s a little bit later, when the baby is asleep in Shiro’s arms and Shiro is snoozing against Curtis. When Pidge is deep in a conversation with Hunk about something Keith doesn’t understand. It’s just around that time, when Keith is surrounded by everyone, content to be there, right in the middle of everything, that he has the thought:  _ This. This is why.  _

 

_ This is why the universe is worth saving. This is why we tried so hard. This is why we found it in us to move forward, even after having lost so much. This is why we’ll save each other again, as many times as it takes. This is why.  _

 

He swallows, suddenly caught in that golden realization. Everything that’s happened in his life has brought him here. To be present, in moments like these. It doesn’t feel like luck. It feels like fate. It feels like being where he’s supposed to be. 

 

Shiro’s patient happiness. Hunk’s bright glee. Pidge’s exuberant satisfaction. Lance’s affectionate warmth. They haven’t flown together in a long time, but Keith closes his eyes and can feel them still. The ones that hold his heart. 

 

“Hey man,” a whack on his knee pulls Keith out of his thoughts. 

 

“Hmm?” Keith turns to find Lance peering at him. Pidge is sitting between them, not paying attention, and he’s half leaned over her, looking up at Keith. 

 

“Stop sleeping.” 

 

“I wasn’t?” Keith sits up a little straighter, and shoots a look over Lance’s shoulder like there’s someone who might be waiting to disagree. “I wasn’t,” he repeats, more firm, gaze trailing back to Lance’s teasing eyes. 

 

“Mmhmm,” Lance says, clearly not buying it. “Got something to show you.” The smirk playing at the edge of his mouth is wicked. He pulls out his comm, taps to a certain image, and passes it over to Keith. 

 

Keith takes one look at the picture. And bursts into a laugh. “What is  _ that!! _ ” 

 

Lance is smug. He raises an eyebrow and makes a lazy swiping motion with his hand. “Keep going.” 

 

Keith swipes and another snort of disbelief escapes from his chest. “The hell?!” 

 

Grinning, Lance starts, volume climbing, “Dude, believe me---” 

 

Coran turns to them with a hiss. “Shush, you!!! Luara is sleeping!!” 

 

The sour, unimpressed look on Lance’s face tells Keith that he’s about to say something like,  _ ‘What about all the times you interrupted MY beauty sleep, huh, Coran? I was sleeping LIKE A BABY but noooo, we needed to perform drills, we needed to have a MAZE, we needed---’  _

 

It’s actually terrifying how vividly Keith can predict Lance’s rant. With all the ease that comes from being on the receiving end of his triades for years and years. Lance opens his mouth, about to go off, but Keith stands up from the couch, interrupting him before he can even get started. He grabs Lance by the wrist and, shaking his head, pulls him out of the room. 

 

(But not before Lance makes an overly exaggerated gesture of zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key in Coran’s general direction, arm waving and eyes bugging out in defiance. Coran responds with a series of hand movements that are as complicated as they are unintelligible.) 

 

Ignoring the silent battle that he was just witness to, Keith motions to Lance’s phone and repeats his initial question, out in the hall. “What is  _ that,” _

 

Coran forgotten, Lance cackles, swiping to another picture. “ _ That _ is Honeydew.” 

 

Keith squints down at the picture of a tiny, little mongrel of a dog. It looks like it’s made of a mop, if a mop was frizzy. And gremlin-like. At the center of the mass of hair is a smooshed face, with a lolling pink tongue. It’s hideous. It’s wonderful. “Honeydew.” Keith repeats, deadpan. 

 

Nodding, Lance confirms. He gets close to Keith, so that they can both view the pictures comfortably. One hand is resting on Keith’s shoulder, his head tilted close enough that Keith can smell his shampoo. Lance’s thumb flits across the screen again, this time to show Norma sitting on her couch with Gingersnap on her lap and Honeydew tucked into her side. “She’s an older dog, so people weren’t exactly lined up at the animal shelter fighting to adopt her. Poor Honeydew was there for three months, no forever home. But then Norms saw her in the newspaper, and she went right over there and adopted Honeydew that same day.” 

 

The next picture is of the mop dog and fat Gingersnap cuddled together. Lance’s fingers drum against Keith’s shoulder, unconsciously adding emphasis to his words. “A match made in heaven.” 

 

“Clearly,” Keith says, delighted with the pictures. He swipes once more---but instead of dogs, the next picture is of Lance, smiling into the camera. It’s a selfie and he’s got his mouth pursed in a coy smile, his index finger and thumb in a ‘V’ on his chin. His eyes are bright and happy and he looks, “Cute.” Keith says. 

 

“Yep,” Lance says before looking down at the comm. He sees the image and his mouth snaps shut and the tips of his ears burn red and he actually stutters a little bit, pulling away and powering the comm all the way down: “Heh, well, t-that’s all---” He teeters to one side, further away from Keith, fingers wiggling at the air. 

 

“I have some pictures too,” Keith offers, not entirely sure why Lance is flailing around the hallway. 

 

“Yeah?” Lance asks, coming to a stop on his bouncing feet, hands caught midair. “You do?” 

 

Keith nods. A little hesitant, he tilts his head in the direction of the hangar. “Wanna see?” 

 

Lance shakes his head  _ yes! _ , with far too much enthusiasm. And then he backtracks and says, sticking his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, “That’d be cool. Sure. Yeah.” And they’re off. 

 

Except for, of course it’s not that easy. 

 

Because Keith tries to go back to the hangar the way he came: through the barracks on the upper level, down five decks, then across the walkway from the B decks to the A decks, and then to docking bay one. Also known as the most direct route to the aircraft hangar where the Kestrel is docked. Also known as the way that  _ makes sense. _

 

Except to Lance. “Okay,” he says, walking beside Keith, one palm pressed to his forehead as if Keith is the puzzle of the millenium and Lance is the one who’s been tasked with figuring him out. “Okay. Lemme get this straight.” He inhales. “You really think that through, and then down,  _ and then _ across is the  _ fastest  _ way?!” 

 

They step into the elevator. Keith moves to push the button but Lance shoo’s his hand away from the control panel, then presses the exact same button that Keith would have pressed. Keith rolls his eyes. 

 

“Yes? Lance?” His voices raises a pitch without his consent. “Because it is?” 

 

Hands shoved in his pockets again, Lance shrugs his shoulders down and shakes his head, like,  _ you poor stupid sap. _ “Keith. Keith, Keith, Keith. It’s much better to go  _ down _ to the flight deck, then take the central stairs  _ up  _ to the bridge maintenance floor. From there you’re only a five minute walk to the loading bay. And the loading bay is connected to the hangars.” 

 

“What?!” 

 

They step out of the elevator, almost there now. 

 

“It’s basic math, Keith.” A grin crawls across his face. “Oh wait.” Lance puts one hand up in the air, pulling them both to a stop. “Hang on. I’m supposed to _ leave the math to Pidge _ , aren’t I?” 

 

Keith’s face flushes and he shoves Lance into the nearest wall. “Shut up!!” One of the crewhands in the hallway pauses and looks at Keith and Lance and they both wave her away, like,  _ nothing to see here, move along.  _

 

Lance cackles. 

 

“Shut up,” Keith repeats, half smile twitching. “That was the best I could come up with at the time. You surprised me.” 

 

Lance runs into him on purpose as they continue down the winding halls of the Atlas, their shoulders bumping. He sighs, the traces of a smile still pulling at his lips. “Ah, youth.” 

 

Keith hums an agreement. It does seem like a long time ago. 

 

“Holy crow,” Lance swears under his breath as soon as they get in the hangar. He runs on ahead, towards the Kestrel. “You didn’t tell me she was  _ such a babe _ !!” 

 

Keith smiles at his enthusiasm as Lance bounds around his ship, marveling. Keith is proud of her. She’s black and shimmery, with the best of the Blade’s tech, and Altean craftsmanship, and Pidge’s software, and Hunk’s engineering all rolled up into one beautiful piece of machinery. Every bit of her is customized for him and him alone. He hasn’t settled down since the end of the war; sometimes it seems that his whole life has been a lot of moving, a lot of changes. In a way, this ship is an anchor for him. His home. 

 

“Take a look inside,” Keith says, unlocking her with a touch of his handprint. (Just his fingertips though, because his gloves cover his palms). 

 

Lance hops up, all but running up the entry ramp. Keith follows him, trying to see his ship’s interior through fresh eyes. He doesn’t usually let others on board. Ever. 

 

The space wolf must be elsewhere, exploring the Atlas maybe, or napping not too far off. Keith isn’t worried. She’s always a whistle away. (Well. When she wants to listen, anyways). 

 

“Here,” Keith says, pulling Lance’s attention away from the myriad of screens in the comm room. He motions for Lance to follow, slipping into what serves as his bedroom. The room is compact, but Keith keeps it tidy so it doesn’t feel cramped. His bunk is made up, blankets and sheets regulation crisp. A desk with his datapad charging dock, sketchbooks, and a coffee can full of pens. A plush dog bed that the wolf has never once touched since he bought it. Keith walks over to a narrow bookshelf---mostly housing souvenirs from his travels, rather than books---and takes down a box. 

 

He pulls out a few prints, including the ones he was developing when Shiro called him, and hands them to Lance. 

 

“You took these?” Lance asks him. 

 

Keith nods. He tells Lance shortly about where and when the photos were taken. Some of the stories behind the people pictured. Lance’s mouth works as he listens, the soft bow of his lips pursed in thought. 

 

“Huh,” Lance makes a noise, half a laugh. Mouth drawn, eyes downcast, he shakes his head. When he looks up, the way his eyes meet Keith’s, kind and thoughtful and quiet---it’s a look that can only be described as fond. He smiles, taking another look at the pictures before he says, “You always gotta one up me, huh,”

 

Keith frowns, opening his mouth to object because that’s not what this is at all. But then Lance continues: 

 

“Keith. These are,” he moves the prints in his hand with care, like they’re delicate, “These are amazing.” He shuffles through the stack, taking his time, “They’re like...art,” 

 

Keith’s face feels hot. He ducks his head, being honest: “They’re amatuer at best. Just a hobby.” 

 

“You’re talented.” Lance says. Straightforward. He means it. 

 

Keith allows himself a moment to bask in the praise. “Thanks, Lance,” he says, poking through the box. Hopefully his hair is covering enough of his face that the flush isn’t obvious. 

 

“I mean, they’re no Honeydew,” Lance says, teasing. “But…” 

 

Keith huffs out a laugh. He holds out his hand, retrieving the pictures and stowing the box back with his other treasures. “Since you’re here, wanna take a look around?” Lance’s hungry look towards the Kestrel’s bridge wasn’t lost on him. 

 

“Dude,” Lance motions with a nod of his head towards the bow of the ship. “Was I dreaming or did I see a nova slipstream drive processor in there?” 

 

Trying to contain a grin, Keith leads Lance down the hall to the controls. “You’re awake, Lance.”

 

Lance enters the cockpit, eyes wide with awe. He’s not shy about throwing himself into the pilot’s seat, hands prancing over the dash greedily. 

 

“Dude,” he repeats, finding his way to the Kestrel’s specs with ease. “I’ve only seen this much power in battleship class cruisers and higher! Does she really have the propulsion system to cash these kinda checks?” 

 

Keith scoffs. Leaning forward, Keith taps in a few commands, essentially taking the Kestrel out of sleep mode. Everything around them begins to glow as she powers up, ready for flight. “Why don’t you find out?” 

 

“This is some kind of trick. You’re joking.” Lance looks up at him. “You can’t be serious.” 

 

Not breaking his gaze, Keith punches in the transmission that will notify the Atlas crew they’ll be launching. “Unless you’re scared.” 

 

Lance looks out over the screens, his hands loose over the controls. The Atlas opens and the huge maw of space looms before them. Lance’s jaw sets. Keith can see the thrum of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “Oh. You’re on.” 

 

It’s been a long time since Lance flew. 

 

Even longer since they flew together. 

 

It’s remarkable, how different they are. Keith flies bright and fast, flaring and bold to his objective. He’s single-minded and forceful; he flies like it’s the only thing he’s meant to do. 

 

Lance whoops as the Kestrel responds effortlessly to his touch. She dips and rolls through space, and Keith actually has to grit his teeth and hang on. Lance flies with an energy that’s so different than Keith’s: it’s fluid and lighthearted and buoyant; he flies like it’s the only thing he wants to do. 

 

Lance lays on the throttle, feeling how fast the Kestrel can take them. He dives, laughing, and Keith’s stomach swoops upward, both from the forces pulling him back, and the sound of Lance’s laugh echoing throughout his ship, anchoring him so fully in this moment. 

 

“Wow,” Lance breathes later, when the ship has slowed to a languid pace. He turns over the controls to auto, letting her drift. Hands running through his floofy curls, he sits back in Keith’s chair. “Wow,” he repeats, hands falling to his lap, eyes looking out to the stars. There’s the barest hint of a smile, genuine, at the corner of his lips. He shakes his head. 

 

Keith is standing beside him. He looks out, following Lance’s gaze, but he doesn’t say anything. He gets it. 

 

Lance looks up at Keith from the pilot’s seat, head tilted back to see Keith. “Unbelievable,” he says. The color is high in his cheeks. His eyes are bright, expression showing all the rush that comes from flying. 

 

(Lance  _ did _ miss it.) 

 

(They  _ are _ the same that way.) 

 

“Yeah.” Keith says, wetting his lips. 

 

He leans down, 

 

down, close to Lance, 

 

slow as if time is pausing, 

 

just for this, 

 

Keith’s hand rests heavy against the top of the pilot’s seat. His opposite hand just barely touches Lance’s jaw. Fingertips light against his cheek. He applies the slightest pressure, thumb splayed just under Lance’s mouth, pressing the pad into his chin as if to part his lips more readily. 

 

The coaxing isn’t necessary. Lance’s mouth parts, pliant against his, and Keith’s hand falls away. 

 

The kiss is slow too. 

 

It’s slow. A gentle slide of their lips together, open mouthed and tentative. 

 

It’s fleeting. Keith straightens up, pulling away, his heart bounding in his chest. His eyes flutter shut and he finds that it takes courage to open them. 

 

When he does, Lance is looking up at him, mouth still soft and open. 

 

He closes his mouth and looks up at Keith and stands. He stands, toe-to-toe with Keith, and pulls him in, tugging at the open collar of Keith’s jacket. 

 

His mouth finds Keith’s again, and his grip loosens on Keith’s jacket, hands now finding their way into Keith’s hair, tugging at the strands that curl over his nape, loosened from the braid. 

 

Keith works at his mouth, kiss becoming more insistent, deeper. His hand is splayed over Lance’s neck, thumb over the dark freckle he’s admired so many times. Lance makes a jilted, barely-there kind of whimper and Keith chases it; he pushes Lance against the tall back of the pilot’s seat, and tilts his head, urging the kiss deeper still. 

 

Lance responds in kind, eager to follow Keith’s lead even within the confines of his arms. He’s pulling Keith in closer, and closer against him, ‘til their bodies are flush together in a way that makes Keith breathless. 

 

“Lance,” Keith says, the name falling from his mouth when they part. His voice is hoarse with emotion. 

 

“Yeah?” Lance looks at him with half-lidded eyes, as if not fully coherent. His broad palms dip down from Keith’s neck, one coming to rest against his chest. Keith wonders if Lance can feel the pound of his heartbeat there. 

 

Inhaling, Keith closes his eyes, pressing his mouth against the corner of Lance’s. Now that he’s kissed him, it’s all he knows to do. 

 

He feels the way Lance’s mouth ticks up in a smirk. “Okay,” he says. 

 

Keith breathes him in, this close, inhaling the warm, sweet, clean,  _ familiar  _ smell, caught in it, until Lance is in his arms, and his nose is pressed against Lance’s neck and he’s holding him close like----like he he has before, like he’s always wanted, like nothing else. 

 

And Lance smiles; Keith can feel it, the rise of his cheeks, the soft huff of a laugh next to his ear. His hands trail down Keith’s shoulders, one hand resting firm on Keith’s bicep. He pulls away, just slightly. 

 

“So, and here’s what I’m thinking,” Lance leans back, hands moving in the air in front of him, even as Keith has him around the waist. His eyebrows arch up, playful, “I’ve somehow stumbled into another dimension OR this is just a very nice dream OR---and this is more likely---both.” 

 

Keith snorts. He takes a moment to consider the words. “A  _ nice _ dream?” 

 

“ _ Very _ nice dream,” Lance corrects. 

 

Keith ducks his head, pulling him close again. He rests his forehead against Lance’s shoulder. This...this is something between them that’s taken a long time to achieve. It’s true that it feels too good to be true. “I feel like that too.” 

 

Lance inhales sharp. His hand rests on the back of Keith’s head, holding him. 

 

This thing between them feels very fragile. Unspoken. Like it could break in two with the slightest harm. But it feels too, natural and easy. Like it was always meant to develop this way. 

 

It’s natural, the way Lance stays close at his side as Keith stands up, blinking at the monitors and realizes he has no idea where they are. 

 

It’s easy, the way Keith gives him a look when Lance starts talking about him being ‘directionally challenged,’ and renews the argument about the fastest way to the flight deck. 

 

It feels right, to exit the Kestrel together. To step down on the deck of the Atlas next to Lance, and know that the rest of his friends are within reach. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one chapter left !


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Oh boy! Now that keith and lance kissed and this is the last chapter, everything is just going to be great!!!’  
> (author looks into the camera like on the office)

***

 

_ Room 54311, The Grizigbas, a rotating satellite casino in orbit around planet Lahgelio, Excalr system, mid-crescent of the Mirage galaxy.  _

 

Keith twists, trying to unpin his arms. His wrists are already rubbed raw from the effort. 

 

Down the hall there’s a loud bang---Keith jolts at the noise, shuffling backwards, eyes wide in the dark---but the bang is followed by only a murmur. The lock on the door doesn’t turn. No one enters the room, not yet. 

 

He doesn’t remember when they left. How long it’s been. His mind is an ugly disarray of panic. It matches the state of the room he’s in---he was not easily bound. It took three of the largest of them holding him down, and another to tie his arms. The one who tightened the restraints must not have had a solid understanding of human anatomy. Keith’s shoulder was dislocated in the process. Or maybe they understood just fine and it was intentional, Keith doesn’t know, he can’t---he can’t think---

 

There’s another loud noise and Keith shrinks further back, mouth half open, but silent. 

 

His mouth is sore. The tenderness of his gums should pale in comparison to the ache from his dislocated shoulder. It should be nothing next to the bruises around his neck from where he was held down, or the cuts on his legs from where they took his boots, wary of extra weapons. They took his knife. His mother’s knife, Krolia---he’ll have to tell her when---if he---

 

They tore his suit too; the breast plate is gone and the collar is hanging loose around his chest. His comm is busted. They---

 

They killed Laav. She’s always been so tight-lipped in all the years Keith’s known her, but at that time she screamed. Her voice was shrill. Shriller than he would have thought. The sound is still echoing in his ears, piercing his thoughts,  _ he can’t concentrate,  _

 

Another faraway crash sends him scrambling into the nearest corner, away from the door. At least his back will be to a wall, at least he can---

 

His jaw aches. His mouth is sore. He can feel them---fangs. His mouth tastes bitter metallic. Blood from where the teeth tore through his gums when he shifted. He can feel them. Curved and stunning. Macabre. Inhuman. 

 

His eyes changed too. His vision is sheeny. The room is dark, perhaps darker than human eyes could parse, but he can see well enough. The details of the hotel suite---the couch that he overturned in the scuffle when they first tried to pin him down. The picture that fell from the wall when he threw one of them into it. The glass from the picture frame is smashed into the expensive carpet. The bedsheets that he tore through before they took his second knife. All crystal clear, like daylight is streaming in, like he isn’t in a windowless room in a hotel suspended in space. It’s making him feel woozy, disconnect adding to his confusion. 

 

The last time his Galra blood manifested like this, he was fighting Shiro. His darkest hour, that bleakest moment, the panic that sent him reeling into the furthest reaches of himself. 

 

At that time, the change lasted only seconds. Now, now it’s been hours---hours?---and the galran traits are not receding. He’s scared. It scares him. 

 

Keith tries to close his mouth, to let the fangs settle where they will. He wets his lips. He purses them, with effort, trying to whistle----

 

He can’t. He can’t whistle because his mouth is dry and  _ the goddamn fangs _ , this isn’t him, he can’t---

 

Shiro. Shiro would tell him to be calm. Patient. Keith tries to suck in a breath and hold it. Shiro wouldn’t give up. Hunk and Pidge would think of something. The Blades, Kolivan, Krolia---his mom would come up with a plan. She wouldn’t have gotten captured in the first place, but if she did, she’d sure as hell have a plan to get out. 

 

Lance.  Lance would make him laugh. Keith exhales, shaky. 

 

Lance would make him laugh, and they’d get out of this together. Keith wants that. More than anything, in his panic, he keeps cycling back to that. If Lance was here with him---

 

_ He can’t think--- _

 

Another crash outside, he’s alone, he shrinks further away, closer to the wall. 

 

Lance: his family, his friend, his would be lover----the thoughts spiral. Dark and cold. Keith  _ cares, _ he doesn’t want to fight him, he doesn’t want to leave him,  _ I’m grateful that I let you in.  _

 

_ Tell me I can stay.  _

 

_ Come back with me. _

 

All the things he should have said. Keith chokes on his next breath, half a sob. He doesn’t want this to be his end. Not like this. Not alone. 

 

Together. He looks up to the ceiling, wishing it were true. A membrane nictitates over his eyes, preventing the tears from forming. His mouth is sore. It’s wrong. 

 

Lance doesn’t know he’s here because  _ no one knows he’s here _ and he’s alone and  _ he can’t concentrate _ and his mouth hurts and 

 

The door opens. 

 

Four aliens---different races, but all mid-to-high ranking members of the Qej group---enter the room. Their leader, an individual who goes by the name of Ghoj, enters last. 

 

Keith breaths turn rapid, sharp inhales through his open mouth. His already racing heart increases its canter. His eyes flick from Ghoj to the larger aliens surrounding him. He tosses his head, trying to get the hair out of his eyes. The horned one to the far right is the one who killed Laav, Keith is almost sure. 

 

Ghoj himself is small and slender. His skin is slick, poreless, black iridescent. Like spilled oil, shimmery on Earth pavement, a million lightyears from here. His eyes are almond shaped, as big as Keith’s fists, bulging, vacant. When he speaks, the consonants are grating on the ears, ground out harsh. 

 

Keith snarls over the Ghoj’s introduction, baring the tratorious fangs that have taken up residence in his mouth. He steps forward despite his thundering heart. A weapon is pressed against his throat in response. The one holding it was fast to reply. Faster than he expected. She touches Keith’s hair, pushing a lock behind his ear and Keith jerks away. She smiles and presses the device against his windpipe. It  _ clickclickclicks _ like it might be on a timer. 

 

“Perhaps it doesn’t fully comprehend. Is this recreation to you, paladin of Voltron? Sport?” Ghoj’s long tail flicks once, before curling up behind him. “No? Perhaps, then, a misguided execution of conscience? Fueled by some infantile perception of morality.” Ghoj looks at the remains of the furniture in the room, thin lips drawn back in irritation. His tongue, rolling and thick, laps out over his sharp outer teeth, before both his jaws hinge shut. He turns to Keith. “Zarkon was a fool. But the empire was readily manipulated and his tired nepotism made for easy profit. The coalition is equally unimaginative, but thus far, they’re proving far more irksome. It was stupid to pursue me. Stupid to go against the Qej in our most lucrative sector. Very stupid.” 

 

Ghoj raises his hand and one of his proxies---far more physically imposing than Ghoj himself---steps forward. The underling’s body is scarred, stumps of horns shorn off suggesting a lifetime of violence. Just one twisted horn remains intact, jutting from the left temple. The alien produces a flame: bright white fire that makes Keith’s pupils constrict into needle thin slits. His panic increases tenfold, and he shuffles backwards, wrestling away, away from the flame. 

 

It’s not a weapon. Ghoj ignores Keith’s reaction and retrieves a small container from his jacket, spreading sulfur smelling silt over a slip of paper before rolling it in his thin, spidery hands. He lights it and takes a drag. Mud colored smoke curls around both his inner and outer teeth as he exhales, jaws slack in a half grimace. He decides Keith’s fate. “Keep it alive for three more rotations. By then, I’ll have apprised you as to whether it will be of use to me. If not, kill it.” 

 

He turns to go and Keith surges forward, movements feral. His arms are bound behind him, but he is strong enough to throw off one of Ghoj’s lackeys, and then another, and then a third alien as they do their best to contain him. He’s not thinking. Not fighting with grace or technique. It’s mindless, frenzied kicking and shoving, bare feet digging into the floor for traction as he desperately fights his way toward the door before it locks behind Ghoj. 

 

“See that it doesn’t damage any more of my hotel.” Ghoj says, unimpressed. Only a sick thump of his tail against the floor betrays any emotion. 

 

And then there’s a crack----one of the alien’s elbows colliding with Keith’s nose. His head snaps back, he stumbles, choking and coughing on the blood immediately filling his nose and mouth. He spits, swaying, but still upright. 

 

The next blow is not so kind. Keith blacks out. 

 

*

 

Keith wakes up in a dark and empty room. 

 

He immediately has the thought that he’s no longer in the Grizigbas hotel. There’s no sign of movement---no hum like the crystal generated power of the Castleship or the Atlas, no near silent whirr of the Blade headquarters, no pleasant thrum like aboard his Kestrel---but instinct tells him that he’s been moved to a ship. 

 

That’s good. Keith’s always felt better with his feet off the ground. The Qej group’s first mistake was thinking Keith Kogane----Black Paladin of Voltron, leader of the Blade of Marmora---would be easily taken care of. Their last mistake will be putting him aboard something he can pilot. He hauls himself to an upright, sitting position. Legs crossed, back to the wall. His hands are still bound behind his back. 

 

The room is dark. Keith blinks but he can’t make out any details. His mouth is still sore, but his tongue finds only blunt canines---the galran changes have receded. He tilts his head back, chest heaving out a sigh of relief. Dried blood is crusted around his nostrils and lips, and there’s a dark stain down what’s left of his top, but at least the pain cleared his mind. 

 

He tries to remember the events leading up to his capture. 

 

He’s been in this galaxy for the better part of a phoeb. Intel indicated that following the dissolution of the empire, many of the systems here have been restored to their previous order, free of the Galra’s influence. On the surface, they shouldn’t need any humanitarian aid. However, despite all the information on the disbanding of the Qej crime syndicate---an intergalactic force that ran parallel to Zarkon, funding and fueling and profiting from many of his efforts---there’s obviously a glut of resources being syphoned away from the people. The citizens of this sector are suffering in particular; huge swaths of poverty planetside, with opulent satellites hanging just a moon away. Combined with the gruesome history of the Qej group here, it was just too fishy to ignore. 

 

But the Blades aren’t exactly diplomats like the Alteans or harbingers of peace like Shiro and the coalition. Keith is leading a humanitarian group, so they typically won’t go where they aren’t wanted. And the interplanetary council of this system made it clear that outside interference wasn’t wanted. So the Blades left. 

 

On paper. Formally. 

 

In actuality, Keith didn’t  _ feel _ right leaving. So he decided, in the moment, to take a closer look, (off the record), at one of the more impoverished planets. Lahgelio, where children starve with the bright lights of the Grizigbas winking at them overhead. 

 

It happened so fast. Just a recon mission. Only Laav and Artek---two of his best---accompanied him. Artek went down first. He was the biggest of the three, but it didn’t matter. The sniper’s aim was flawless. Keith and Laav tracked their attacker. They discovered that the Qej group is not so disbanded after all. They followed the lead up to the casino satellite. Laav was killed. Keith was captured. 

 

He leans forward, closing his eyes. His tangled hair falls around his face, braid undone in the fight. 

 

He waits. 

 

And waits. 

 

Ghoj said three rotations. 

 

His next call with Lance is supposed to be in seven. 

 

He can picture him, what he’ll say. Keith will tell him:  _ ‘It was a slow week for me, just held hostage by one alien mob boss. I handled it. _ ’ Lance’s thin brows will shoot up into his hairline and he’ll say Keith’s name in that way that he does, incredulous and pitch-y. He’ll cross his arms, hands shoved in his armpits, chin jutted out, eyes narrow, sinking further and further down into his seat as Keith shares the story in as few words as possible. When Lance has heard his fill, his arms will fly up, hands splayed, he’ll be shaking his head and ranting. Keith will say something simple which will only add fuel to the fire. It’ll be good. Keith is looking forward to it. To seeing him again. 

 

Before leaving the Atlas, Lance had kissed him, slow and sweet. Lips parted as he pulled away, hesitation in his eyes. And Keith had dove back in, unwilling to leave him, begrudging him any distance at all. Hands on his hips, anchoring him there, holding him firm. 

 

Inside his cell, Keith smiles down into his lap at the memory. 

 

Outside his cell, movement stirs. 

 

Keith stands up, stretching his legs to get the feeling back into them from where they’ve been pressed into the floor. Pins and needles gone, he crouches, ready, listening. He’ll only have one chance at this, probably. 

 

The door opens, a sliver of light cast into the room. 

 

Keith lunges at the legs of the first person in the doorway, throwing them over his back. He spins, jumping into the arc, using the momentum to land a flying kick into the chest of the next guard tasked with maintaining him. The guard is more than twice Keith’s height; he grabs at Keith’s leg, but it only earns him the opposite knee to the face. He goes down hard. 

 

He has a weapon. With no small amount of effort, Keith dislodges it from the holster and takes off at a sprint, holding the weapon in his hands, still bound behind his back. (It feels like a gun rather than a blade. Damn. He would have preferred a sword. Bad luck.) 

 

He takes off at a sprint, ducking down the nearest hall before either of them can pursue. 

 

He was right. He is on a ship. Part of his Blade training involved memorizing the various deck plans for the designs most widely in commission throughout the empire. Keith isn’t familiar with this model. Not likely Galra occupied, then. Still, there’s only so many places the bridge can be. He slows his gait, slipping more fully into the shadows. 

 

It’s not a large ship, or a pretty one. Most of the framing is bare, and it seems like few crewhands are needed to maintain it. Maybe designed for hauling cargo? 

 

He sticks to the maintenance corridors between bulkheads as shipmates rush past in a panic, looking for their escaped ‘cargo.’ Or so he thinks. 

 

The lights blare red and a warning sounds out to the crew, but it’s not advising them of an escaped prisoner: the hull is breached. What the hell?

 

Keith frowns. Whatever. Works for him. 

 

It makes for the perfect distraction. Keith finds the core, powering the ship, and from there, directs himself to the bridge, following the web of conduits overhead. No one even stops him as he makes his way through the halls. 

 

The bridge consists of just three stations and a handful of monitors. The crew is missing. He was right---she is a cargo ship. No combat capabilities, barely enough power under the hood to get them out of this system. Keith wrinkles his nose, but takes up residence in the captain’s chair all the same. He makes quick work of re-routing the---actually, no, he doesn’t. He can’t. His fingers twitch in dismay, frowning down at the controls. Flying a ship is going to be tough with both hands tied behind his back. 

 

Just as he’s contemplating what to do next, the unmistakable feeling of being watched creeps up his neck. The sound of footsteps over the deck---light but  _ close _ ; Keith tenses, ready to rise from the chair. Before he can move, however, there’s a blade at his throat. He swallows, breath thick. The edge nicks his skin. 

 

Keith inhales, unable to turn his head, his attacker still behind him. With the enemy between him and the exit, there’s nowhere to run. And Keith has been functioning solely on adrenaline for what feels like weeks. He’s injured and exhausted and at a ridiculous disadvantage. 

 

But Keith has never given up in his life. Never when it mattered. And certainly not now. The hand not clutching his stolen gun tightens into a fist.  

 

He makes a decision: he blazes like fire underneath the blade at his throat, twisting out of the chair before the enemy can corner him any further. Faster than the attacker can react, Keith sweeps their legs out from under them, pinning the assailant down flat on the floor. He drops down, his whole weight keeping them pinned. Their broadsword makes as if to run him through; Keith cocks the gun in his bound hands, aiming it straight down flush on his attacker’s chest. 

 

Breathing heavily, he shifts on top of the person, digging the gun into their ribs. He tosses his head, getting the bangs out of his eyes. 

 

When he looks down into his attacker’s face, a pair of familiar blue eyes---wide with shock---look back up at him. 

 

“Lance?!” 

 

“Keith?!!!” Lance loosens his hold on the sword, relaxing his grip so that the point is no longer positioned over Keith’s breastbone. He flails his limbs out like a starfish, relaxing under Keith, the weapon clattering against the floor. Relief spreads out over his features but is quickly replaced; Lance puffs out his cheeks, blows out a breath: “Well. This is awkward.”  

 

“What are you doing here?!” 

 

“Rescuing you!!!?” Lance wiggles underneath his legs and gives Keith a dirty look. 

 

Keith rises to his feet and steps back, giving Lance enough room to stand up in the narrow confines of the bridge room. Lance gives him another withering look before he dusts himself off. 

 

He repeats himself. “Rescuing you. Clearly.” 

 

“Who said I needed to be rescued?!” Keith protests. He moves as if to sit back down in the captain’s seat but Lance waves him away and sprawls down instead. 

 

“Uhh, I did?” He raises his eyebrows and gives Keith an obvious once over. “You look like shit, by the way.” 

 

“I had a handle on the situation!!” 

 

Lance huffs out a laugh, like,  _ really?  _ This _ is a handle on the situation? _

 

Keith scowls and juts his chin out, like,  _ yes, Lance, this is a handle on the situation.  _

 

“I made it to the bridge, didn’t I?!” Keith says, exasperated. 

 

“Thanks to my distraction!!” Lance says, examining the route the ship was taking before they intercepted the course. 

 

Keith scoffs. Hull breach or no, he would have been fine. Probably. 

 

Lance taps open the visor on his helmet so Keith can see his skepticism unobstructed. One brow arches up, obnoxious, and he tilts his head. “Well then, Keith-y boy, pray tell: what were you going to do next?” 

 

Keith shrugs and then immediately regrets it. His shoulder is still fucked. “I hadn’t….gotten there yet.” 

 

Lance sees his wince and his expression softens. He twirls his finger in the air, motioning for Keith to turn around. Keith complies (with an obligatory roll of his eyes) and Lance uses the red bayard’s sharp edge to, carefully, cut through the restraints. “Classic Keith,” he says, voice too quiet for it to be much of a taunt. When Keith’s hands are free, he turns back to face Lance. Lance collapses the bayard and catches one of Keith’s hands, thumb gentle over Keith’s knuckles. 

 

His hands, like the rest of him, are a wreck. The tender skin of his wrists looks like it’s been put through a meat grinder, all torn and bloody. His knuckles are bruised, cuts crisscrossing over purple and black mottle. 

 

Lance kisses the back on Keith’s hand, mouth warm where Keith’s hand is cold. He rises to his feet, giving Keith’s fingers a gentle squeeze before he drops his hand. 

 

Keith swallows, not sure what to say. 

 

Lance’s cheeks are flushed. He looks away. “Weell, I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve had enough of this joyride. Whatcha think? Time to bounce? In flight entertainment was so-so, but the snacks have been awful. Don’t even get me started on---” 

 

A distant rumble echoes throughout the ship. Keith motions for Lance to shut up, but, naturally, he doesn’t. The sound repeats and Keith smacks the front of Lance’s armor, trying to hear over his constant yammering. 

 

“Man, rescuing people just isn’t what it used to be,” Lance complains. He looks like he wants to shove Keith back, but he crosses his arms instead. 

 

“Is that---?” Keith listens. Something pulls in his chest, deep between his ribs. There’s only one thing in the universe that sounds just like that. 

 

The red lion roars again, this time loud enough to be unmistakable. “Red?” 

 

“The one and only.” 

 

Keith’s face splits into a grin. “You brought my lion?” 

 

Lance shakes his head, motioning Keith out the door and down the hall. “Dude. I bought the whole team. And, for the record, she’s  _ our _ lion.” 

 

Keith stops. That means…

 

He turns and pulls Lance into him, grabbing him on either side of helmet. He leans in, face close enough to share the same breath as Lance. Lance’s eyes are wide and he stutters something out. 

 

Keith ignores him and flips on the comm: “Team. Report status.” 

 

“Keith!!” 

 

“Keith, oh man, dude, am I glad to hear you!!” 

 

Lance winces; Hunk and Pidge are loud in his ears. He pushes Keith off with a hop and says, “What am I? A walking cell phone?” 

 

(Lips in a pout he shoots Keith a betrayed look and mutters, “Thought you were gonna kiss me.”)

 

“Huh?” 

 

“What?” Lance raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t hear anything.”  Hunk and Pidge are shouting on the comm---Hunk is saying something about  _ mobile  _ phones and Pidge is telling Lance to take off his helmet and give it to Keith so she can talk to him directly---Lance ignores them both. 

 

“Alright,” Lance closes the visor on his helmet and claps his hands. “Mission Retrieve Our Fearless Leader: Cleared. Now we move onto part two: kicking some bad guy ass. Next stop: lions.” 

 

He smacks Keith on the back (not nearly as hard as he usually would), urging him down the hall again. Keith boards the red lion with Lance, immediately surrounded by her powerful and comforting energy. 

 

“Keith!!” Shiro’s image is the first he sees as the comms unfurl on the red lion’s display. “Are you okay?” 

 

The Atlas is not far off. The yellow and green lions converge on Red as the three of them return to the ship. 

 

“I’ve been better,” Keith says truthfully. Now that he’s in safety’s reach, every part of him aches. Exhaustion settles over him all at once. 

 

“You don’t look okay,” Hunk says. Pidge pipes in with something and Hunk nods, but Keith doesn’t follow the conversation. Everything seems to be drifting away. 

 

“Just hang on a little longer, you’re almost home,” Shiro says, sending members of his crew to the landing deck with medical supplies. The med bay will be prepped by the time they get back. 

 

Keith nods, swaying. He notes Lance standing up with an exclamation, but nothing more after that. 

 

*

 

He emerges from the healing pod to the sound of Coran’s voice: 

 

“---don’t suppose _ I’d _ be too comfortable anyways! Heard the Fizars were trying their hands at healing pods, and well!! I don’t like to be a negative nulblarry, as they say, but imagine, putting one’s faith into anything other than the magnificence that is Altean craftsmanship! A body can always depend on that ol’Altean ingenuity, that’s what---oh hullo!!”

 

The pod decompresses and Keith tumbles out, ‘graceful as a newborn goraff,’ Coran supplies helpfully. He moves with leaden legs to a nearby gurney and accepts the blanket Coran ties over his head and under his chin like a hooded cape, as well as the steaming hot mug that’s thrust into his hands. Keith makes a face as he takes a sip and realizes it’s warm goo. (He covertly puts it aside.)

 

“How long?” he croaks. 

 

Coran either doesn’t hear him, or, more likely, chooses to ignore Keith’s question. He has a device that looks like television remote in his hands and he’s waving it all around Keith and the surrounding area like a dowsing rod. The closer it gets, the more it beeps and pings. 

 

“Just as I thought!” Coran proclaims, pressing the device against Keith’s chest. It gives off an alarming bell sound. 

 

“What is---” Keith starts to ask, before Coran plunges two fingers into his mouth. “Ackgt?” 

 

Coran pokes around at his teeth and tongue and roof of his mouth, a sensation Keith finds incredibly unpleasant. Brow furrowed, he keeps his mouth open, but his fingers dig into the edge of the gurney lest he kill Coran out of pure instinct. “Gghoragn?” 

 

“Afraid I can’t understand nonsense, my boy,” Coran says cheerfully, removing his hand from Keith’s mouth and wiping it down Keith’s shirt. 

 

“What is that?” Keith repeats, retrieving his cup of goo. He swishes it through his mouth to get rid of the sensation of fingers. Not overly disconcerted with his reaction, Coran hums out a response without looking up. 

 

Keith huffs, pulling the blanket over himself as he crosses his arms and frowns. 

 

“What is what?” Coran chirps after a few minutes, proving he heard Keith in the first place. He presses buttons on his gadget. 

 

Keith grits his teeth in irritation, but he is persistent enough that he probably would have kept questioning Coran, were it not for the medbay doors sliding open. 

 

“Keith.” 

 

His mom strides in, the faintest hint of worry etched into her fine features. She’s at Keith’s side in an instant, pulling him against her. 

 

Coran rests a heavy hand on Keith’s back. He gives Krolia a smile. “He’s fit as a fiddle. No need to fret.” 

 

Krolia lets go of Keith, tilting his face up to see hers. “How are you feeling?” she asks, tone just a little too blunt to sound upset. 

 

(Keith loves that about her.) 

 

“Okay?” Keith can feel his eyebrows pull together in confusion. “Okay. What’s going on?” 

 

She explains, straightforward. “When you were in stasis, a few galran traits emerged and then receded. It put an enormous strain on your body. Enough to delay the healing process.” 

 

“Oh.”  Keith brushes the hair out of his eyes. His mom arranges the blanket around his shoulders, gathering and lifting his hair out from under. She combs through the messy strands with her hands, careful not to pull. Keith continues, “It happened before, too.” 

 

“Did it?” Coran asks, expression wide with undisguised apprehension. “Oh my,” 

 

Keith closes his eyes at the feeling of his mom’s hands arranging his hair into a plait. For some reason, her braids always turn out better than his. He says, “When I was really scared.” It seems like a distant memory now. A nightmare, maybe. 

 

Krolia stops braiding for a moment, then resumes, voice steady. “I will speak with Kolivan. He knows many individuals of mixed species. Perhaps there is a precedent.” She finishes braiding his hair and wraps the end with a band from her wrist. Though she’s done, she fusses with the braid, arranging it over his shoulder---a small sign that she’s worried. 

 

“I’m okay Mom,” Keith repeats. He is. His mouth isn’t even sore anymore. 

 

She smiles down at him, her small smile, brushing the bangs out of his eyes and behind his ears, even though he never wears it that way. “I know.” 

 

A familiar feeling pricks at the edges of Keith’s vision. He grins, sliding off the gurney just as the space wolf flashes into his open arms. She nips at him playfully, tail wagging with enough force to knock over some of the medical equipment. 

 

“Okay, okay,” Keith says, grinning as the nips turn to licks over his face. He runs his hands over her soft ears, just the way she likes. “I’m sorry, okay! I was gone too long,” 

 

“Your friends are eager to see you,” Krolia says, petting the wolf as well. 

 

Keith straightens up from where he’s been giving the wolf a nice tummy rub. She rolls over and nudges him with her head, refusing to leave his side even through some of the narrower corridors on the way to the common room. 

 

*

 

The room is packed. 

 

The common room has been transformed into a veritable command center (never mind that the ship that has actual rooms that are meant for this---everyone here is off duty): Pidge is in the middle of everything, three holoscreens shimmering around her as she sits cross legged on the couch, trusty computer in her lap. Curtis is leaning over her, not saying much, but lending his expertise when necessary. 

 

Kolivan is on the couch opposite Pidge, expression stoic as Luara snoozes in his arms. He has a screen open as well, discussing possible leads with some of the more remote Blade operatives. The baby stirs and he switches her to the other arm with a loving pat without interrupting his transmission.

 

Axca stands against one wall, arms crossed, but listening intently. 

 

Hunk is taking down notes, organizing information on a large holoscreen at Pidge’s left, while offering his own commentary. The board is almost full with details about the Qej group. Shiro is close to Hunk, studying the information, chin cupped in his human hand. He makes a suggestion and Pidge’s typing intensifies while Hunk nods. 

 

There are others too. Members of Keith’s team, a couple of the rebel officers that used to collaborate often with Matt, a handful of aliens that Keith recognizes from the same sector as Lahgelio----but. Keith’s attention drifts towards the one person he always seems to be seeking out: 

 

Lance is both in the middle of everything and not. He has a pencil in his hand, although it’s not clear where or what he’d be writing. But he keeps spinning it in his fingers, pacing between the group, worryingly silent. He balances the pencil between his upper lip and nose, making a fish face. He turns on his heel and the pencil drops to the floor when he sees Keith. 

 

The knit in his brows dissolves as his mouth stretches into a smile. His shoulders relax, loosening the long lines of his body. He whistles at Keith, possibly because of the fact that Keith changed into the red paladin armor (the only thing available), but more probably because he’s Lance. 

 

“Now  _ there’s _ the Keith we all know and love. Finally!!” The look on his face is genuine, eyes alight with relief, cheeks round with happiness. “Looking good, samurai.” 

 

Keith smiles like an idiot, ducking his head down to hopefully conceal the way his face heats. He clears his throat. 

 

“Keith!” Shiro stands up and is at his side before anyone else, wrapping Keith in a hug. Keith leans into the touch, nodding against Shiro’s shoulder as he presses a low, “I’m glad you’re okay,” into the crown of his hair. 

 

“It was pretty scary for awhile there, man,” Hunk tells him, clasping Keith against his chest as soon as Shiro releases him. 

 

Keith squirms in the prolonged embrace. “I’m good, I’m good. Can everybody stop worrying about me now?” 

 

“Nope.” Lance says, motioning like,  _ Gimme!, _ as soon as Hunk sets him down. Keith huffs but opens his arms and Lance steps into them without hesitation. He’s not as skinny as he used to be, and he once again matches Keith in height, but he still fits like no one else does. Lance hugs him as tight as the paladin armor will allow. Keith breathes deep. 

 

“Wow, you’re protesting so loud, Keith,” Pidge comments, dry. 

 

Lance’s head shoots up, ears red. “Jealous much?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Pidge pats the seat next to her on the couch. What she doesn’t expect is for Keith to not only follow her direction and respond by sitting next to her, but also that he wraps his arms around her shoulders and plants a big kiss on her forehead. She submits for a moment and then tries to shove him off but Keith only tightens his hold, pulling her close. Lance hops over the back of the sofa to sit on her other side. He scoots close to her, stretching his arms around her so that the two of them are squishing her. Lance leans in, next to Pidge’s ear and smirks, “Wow, Pidge. You’re protesting so loud.” 

 

To which Pidge responds with an elbow in both Keith and Lance’s sides. 

 

“That hurt you gremlin!!” Lance shrieks, making a big show of rubbing his ribs. 

 

Keith settles down into the cushions next to Pidge, looking at the holoscreens for the first time. There’s a huge amount of information spread out. “What is all this?” 

 

The wolf makes herself comfortable behind Keith’s spot on the couch, watching with interest as Pidge explains the intel they’ve gathered on the Qej group so far. 

 

“It’s like, the more we find, the worse it turns out to be.” Hunk summarizes, shaking his head. “Layers and layers of evil cake with corruption for frosting. It just keeps going!!” 

 

“Dismantling the Qej group at its very core is the best solution.” Shiro says. Kolivan and others in the room nod in agreement. “We have to take Ghoj out.” 

 

Keith looks through the files. It’s true taking out the mob boss would be the most effective way to cripple the Qej, but Ghoj is just as likely to be planetside as he is on any of the many ships known to be associated with the Qej. The syndicate’s reach is vast and mingled with the infrastructure of thousands of planets in this galaxy. He could be anywhere. 

 

“He won’t be easy to find.” Keith says. Realistically, tracking him down could take years. Maybe longer. 

 

“Here he is.” Pidge says, tapping a few keys on her laptop to pull up the screen. She adjusts the angle so that Keith can see. 

 

“Wha---How did you---” 

 

Lance grins, leaning back to wink at Keith over Pidge’s shoulders. “Keith, don’t you know? The devil works fast but Pidge works faster.” 

 

Pidge pushes her glasses up her nose with a little smirk. “A luxite blade is a valuable thing. Once it sold on the black market, it was easy enough to follow the money trail and trace the seller’s whereabouts.” 

 

“I believe this belongs to you,” Kolivan says, leaning forward to return Keith’s knife back to him.

 

Keith takes his mother’s knife in hand. The familiar weight in his palm has comforted him numerous times, but never quite like this. He tightens his grip on the handle, meets the eyes of his teammates. “What’s our plan?” 

 

*

 

The black lion is thrilled at the return of her paladin---from the moment Keith launches, commanding, urging her into open space once more---she revels in it. At every thought, at every slight adjustment, she  _ sings _ through the stars, flawlessly matching his intention.  _ You missed me, huh? _ Keith thinks with a smile, heart lighter than it should be. Black’s burst of power, racing onwards is answer enough. “Me too,” Keith tells her, hands wrapped tight over the throttles. It’s an exercise in self control to stay on course. 

 

The others seem to be having similar experiences in their lions. Yellow’s rumbling purr is thrumming through their hearts, and Green is hopping from place to place, free and light. Red spirals out of formation, Lance whooping at her shameless display of speed. 

 

“Team,” Keith tells them, unable to sound fully serious despite himself, “Stay focused.” 

 

Shiro’s grin on Keith’s screen is telling of how they must look. “Seems like the lions are happy to stretch their legs, huh?” 

 

“You could say that,” Keith says, watching as Lance and Pidge tumble through space, narrowly avoiding collision with Hunk. He can’t find it in himself to be annoyed at their lack of severity. It feels good to fly together again. 

 

“Paladins,” Shiro addresses the team, “You’ll be approaching the Riveriaj in less than sixty ticks. Stay sharp.” 

 

“Oh we’re plenty sharp,” Lance shoots back, winking into the comms. 

 

Pidge activates the cloaking tech. “We’ll be indiscernible to long and short range sensors for the moment, but you guys know it’ll only hold for a few doboshes. Invisible in three...two...now.” 

 

“We only have one chance at this.” Keith looks at each of his teammates on the screen, giving them a smile. “Let’s show these guys what Altea’s finest have to say about the Qej group.” 

 

“The Atlas stops here,” Shiro says. He’ll be ready to engage should things go south, but any closer would surely be detected. 

 

The Riveriaj is not so much a ship as she is a floating fortress. Her specs are impressive---bigger than the Atlas but fully capable of both light speed travel and wormholing. In a chase, they’ll lose her. 

 

(Good thing, Lance is quick to point out, they don’t plan on chasing her.) 

 

On the surface, The Riveriaj appears to be a factory of some sort. But it didn’t take much digging to realize that the mantle of a simple factory is a front for weapons development and distribution. War is big business for the Qej group and this ship is one of their central assets. As the group’s leader, Ghoj makes frequent, albeit short, visits to the huge ship. His personal cruiser is much more modest in size and capabilities---they plan on catching him just as he leaves the Riveriaj. In the moment when the shields break for his exit, Lance and Pidge will slip inside. They’ll board. Lance will cover while Pidge takes down the shields entirely. Hunk will take out the central and accessory engines. Keith will handle Ghoj’s cruiser. 

 

Once they have the boss in custody and the Riveriaj is compromised, they’ll return to the Atlas and hand him over to the coalition. 

 

Everything goes well, at first. 

 

And then, 

 

“It doesn’t make any  _ sense, _ ” Pidge’s annoyance crackles through the comms. 

 

“Uh-oh, Pidge is confused, I don’t like the sound of that,” Hunk says, face pulled into a worried pout. He’s already in position to take out the four central engines, waiting for the word to fire. 

 

“I’m not confused,” Pidge scowls, “I’m saying,” 

 

“Who cares about sense, Pidgey, let’s do the no-more-shields thing and go.” Lance cuts her off. “This place gives me the heebie jeebies.” 

 

“That’s what I’m saying, Lance,” 

 

“Heebie jeebies,” Hunk echoes with a shiver. 

 

“Pidge.” Keith is locked on to Ghoj’s cruiser, still unseen. The timing has to be right before he can attack. “What is it?” 

 

“We thought this place was mass producing weapons right?” 

 

“Right?” 

 

“And the quintessence readings  _ do _ substantiate that theory. But you need more than raw quintessence to make something. What about materials? Or workers? This whole place is...empty.” 

 

“So they use droid labor,” Lance is flippant. “And they’re due for a restock on gun parts. It’s whatever. Doesn’t change what we came to do.” 

 

Keith frowns, watching Ghoj’s cruiser hover just out of reach. If the Riveriaj is currently unoccupied, then why---

 

“Keith!” Shiro cuts into the lion’s comm line. “The Atlas is taking heavy fire. We’re holding steady for now, but---” 

 

Without warning, the screens in front of Keith shudder, images blinking back into clarity. He’s been hit. Black dives down, racing away from the individual fighters who are suddenly swarming him. He’s determined not to lose Ghoj. His cruiser must have detected something---he’s officially on the run. 

 

“It’s a trap!” Pidge’s voice is breathless as she and Lance run through the ship back to their lions. “They were expecting us!!” 

 

“Oh man, why is it  _ always _ a trap!!” Hunk shouts, pulling away to cover Red and Green. 

 

“On me!!” Keith commands, banking hard to prevent another hit even as he chases after Ghoj. He’s generous in his return fire, but the enemy far outnumbers them. His eyes flick to the comms to check on his team. “Capturing Ghoj is still our main priority! Everyone on me! We’ll box him in until we can get close enough to the Atlas for the collocation field!” 

 

“Got it!” Lance blazes past in a line of red, taking out numerous fighters in his wake. He circles the yellow lion. “You doing okay there, buddy?” 

 

“Uhhh,” Hunk is putting the yellow lion’s canon to work. “I’m good?” 

 

“Not too convincing, Hunk!” Keith says with a grin, yanking back on the controls to come to a hard stop. The three bogeys on his tail collide in an impressive cloud of destruction. 

 

“Nice!” Lance shouts his approval, jetting from enemy to enemy until he returns to Keith. Keith is dead set on not losing Ghoj. Like Shiro said, this is a solid chance to land a fatal blow on the crime syndicate. Keith isn’t easily outflown---regardless of how much firepower the Qej throw his way. 

 

Amidst the chaos, Pidge is the first to notice: 

“What. Is. That.” None of the good humor from before is left in her voice. 

 

“Oh  _ shiiiiiit. _ ” 

 

“Not good!!! I changed my mind! I’m not good!!!” 

 

“Damnit!!” Keith swears as Ghoj manages to slip out of range. He can still---

 

“Keith!” Lance’s voice trills with real fear. “Let him go. We officially have bigger fish to fry.” 

 

Keith halts his chase---tailing him isn’t worth abandoning his team. He turns, “Report status---oh---” 

 

Oh no. 

 

“Always slow on the uptake, huh, Keitharino?” 

 

Gone is the veritable fortress of the Riveriaj. The ship is changing. The sheer size alone---were it not for the vacuum of space, it would certainly be groaning with effort as the massive structure reworks itself. Reworks itself---transforms. A robeast. 

 

“Shiro!” Keith calls back to the Atlas, but finds they’re still dealing with an onslaught of their own. “Are you seeing this?” 

 

“We see it, Keith.” Shiro’s voice is grim. “We’re running probability data now and it doesn’t look good.” The Atlas is transforming as well, prepared to fight alongside the lions. But the changed Riveriaj stands in between them. 

 

The four lions are circled up, back to back, ready to defend each other against the enemy surrounding them. “Stay tight,” Keith instructs. He’s searching for an opening between the fighters and the Riveriaj---maybe he can lead it off and give the others a chance to return to the Atlas. They can wormhole away to escape. Keith can rejoin them later, Black has the power and he has the skill to outrun----

 

“Keith.” Lance opens a private line between them. His expression is severe. “I’ll lead it away. You take the others back to the Atlas. I can---” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Let me do this. Red is fast enough. And I---” 

 

“Lance.” Keith tightens his hold on the controls, the leather of his gloves creaking as his fingernails dig into his palms. “I said no.” 

 

Lance’s eyes are sharp---wide and shimmering as they search Keith’s face for the proper response. To argue, to joke, to wheedle, to ignore his orders and do it anyways. Keith sets his jaw and meets his gaze. 

 

“Then you’re not leaving either, Keith.” Lance’s voice is steady. “Don’t you dare. We figure this out together. All of us.” 

 

Keith nods. Together. 

 

Lance returns the nod with a soft smile. “So how are we gonna do this, O fearless leader?” 

 

Keith opens up the channel to all the lions and Shiro. They’ll need--- 

 

But before he can say anything, the Riveriaj is on the offensive. It doesn’t attack the lions---all its focus is on the Atlas. 

 

Despite being so big, it’s fast. The robeast is bipedal in design, but also winged. The main weapon, however, appears to be a tail. The tail is twice the height of its body, drifting back and forth as though the machine is contemplating its prey. It strikes. Shiro blocks the first deadly swing, attempting to evade, but the tails whips forward, laser threatening to rent the Atlas in two. 

 

“Shiro!” The other’s echo Keith’s cry. The Atlas takes damage to the right side and Keith can hear the sirens blaring through Shiro’s comm. 

 

Shiro grits his teeth and returns fire, showering the Riveriaj with the full force of the armament. The MFEs prepare to sortie---they’ll give the Riveriaj everything they’ve got. 

 

“Team.” Keith is flying through the enemy, “Shiro needs us. What can we do.” 

 

“The tail seems to be the major weapon,” Pidge starts with the obvious, “Maybe we can disarm it? That would at least be a start.” 

 

“Dis-tail it,” Hunk corrects. 

 

“I’m on it!” Keith races upwards above the battle. “Lance, cover me!”

 

“Got it!!

 

Summoning the jaw blade, Keith dives down, close to the back of the colossal robeast. He slices down the beast’s jagged spine, with the aim of paralyzing the tail. 

 

But the wings of the beast snap backwards, coming together to form a shield that covers the spine---and almost shearing through the black lion in the process. Keith outmaneuvers them by a hair, the narrow escape leaving him breathless. 

 

“Keith!!!” 

 

“We have to find another way!!” 

 

The four of them are shouting to one another, in sync as they do their best to ward off attack after attack and support the Atlas. But it’s obvious they’re not gaining any ground. Retreat begins to look like the only viable option, if only they can get away. 

 

“Shiro!!” 

 

The Atlas staggers back as the Riveriaj lands a blow on the shoulders. The robeast’s opposite arm swings, ready to hit again---but the red lion intervenes, fire blazing over the enemy. The Riveriaj grabs him in retaliation. Lance cries out, the violent pressure nearly crushing the cockpit. The red lion screams, her systems overloading as Lance desperately tries to escape. 

 

“Lance!!” Keith feels his heart in his throat as the robeast’s fist tightens. Lance’s comm is going in and out, static mixed with swearing, and the others are terrified, meaningless shouts in his ears. Keith is frozen in action, watching in horror, 

 

The red lion looks tiny in its massive grip. 

 

The Riveriaj begins to move,

 

Lance is caught, 

 

Keith can feel his teammates as distress rips through their bond. Pidge’s despair---angry and cutting. Hunk’s gripping lament, trying to stay brave. Shiro’s faithful duty to his crew mixed with perseverance and strength, even in the midst of cataclysmic struggle. Lance’s panicked wish for more time, more words, to keep flying, to see---

 

“A-Allura?” 

 

Keith isn’t sure if it’s Hunk’s voice or Pidge’s that calls out the name first, but the other echoes it, and Shiro repeats it, shock making his voice waver. Keith confusion lasts only seconds---he tears his eyes away from the red lion, searching until he sees it too: light, ancient and glimmering, spinning open among the stars. 

 

A wormhole, not organic or man-made, but magic. Altean. Uniquely so. One of Allura’s. 

 

The opening spirals to a conclusion, calling to mind the very first time they left Earth, the first time they flew together---and just like how they began this journey, the blue lion emerges from its depths. 

 

His own mind still reeling, Keith takes advantage of the momentary drop in defenses that accompanies the enemy’s surprise. He attacks, sole focus on freeing Lance. He’s successful: the red lion slips out of the Riveriaj’s hold, flying back into the battle, towards Blue. 

 

The four of them hail her all at once, opening the channel to see inside, to see who is flying Blue. 

 

But.

 

The cockpit inside of the blue lion is empty. She’s not there..?

 

Keith hears Lance’s breath hitch, a sharp, wounded sound. He hears it as clearly as if they were standing side-by-side. 

 

She’s not there, not in the way that they want her to be, but Keith can  _ feel  _ her.  He can feel Allura’s intense passion for her paladins. To lift them up. To keep them safe. The blue lion joins the fight with all the vigor and poise that Allura possessed, at once laying into the enemy. 

 

“Team.” Keith’s entire spirit goes into the command. “Form Voltron!” 

 

The five of them come together, inimitable potential manifesting into matchless power. Keith lets it overtake him, instinctual and  _ right. _ Present in  _ this _ moment. For the ones he holds the closest to his heart. Devotion--- fierce and soul deep, the only way he knows how to love---overflows in him as the five of them join together again. 

 

He doesn’t want them to suffer any more loss. He doesn’t want to hear that sadness from Lance or feel their distress. This is his team. This is his  _ everything. _

 

“Keith,” Lance breathes out his name like it’s something precious. It sounds like the answer to a confession. 

 

Pidge inhales. Her voice comes out light, airy, “I think I get it now.” 

 

“What?” Keith doesn’t understand their response. “What is it?” 

 

He can hear the smile in Lance’s response, “Keith. You---” He’s at a loss for words. 

 

The emotions of his team flood through their connection: the sweetness of familiarity, a sorrow that smells like lingering perfume, belonging that comes with time and understanding and hardship and overcoming. Solidarity. Family. Love. His own devotion, given back to him. Keith is wonderstruck. 

 

Hunk sniffles. “Is this what you meant, Keith? Because I think I’m chilling in the feelings pool now.” 

 

“Yeah.” Keith wipes his cheeks. “This is what I meant.”  _ Soulmates.  _

 

The Riveriaj balks at the change but is quick to block their first attack. They rally with Shiro. The Atlas is strong but they are stronger together. 

 

The two of them clash, spectacular, through open space. Voltron forms the sword, parrying against the Riveriaj’s tail. Keith draws upon the infinite quintessence that seems to be flowing around them and within them, and Voltron summons another blade. Wielding with both hands, they strike, delivering the final blow against the Riveriaj. 

 

*

 

Lance is already waiting for Keith when he steps down from the black lion, docked once more inside the Atlas.

 

(Red is the fastest after all). 

 

The color is high in his cheeks and his floofy hair is tousled, helmet removed. One side of his mouth quirks up when he sees Keith’s inquisitive look. 

 

“Wha---what?” Keith tilts his head. 

 

“You!!!” Lance jabs the air, one angry index finger leading the way as he stomps towards Keith with purpose, eyes narrowed.  

 

“I--uh,” Keith lifts his arms defensively and takes a step back. 

 

Lance pulls Keith’s helmet off, then he undoes the breast plate of the blue paladin armor with one hand and shrugs out of it. He raises his eyebrows at Keith significantly. Amused by his urgency, Keith unclips the plate from the red paladin armor and Lance pulls his off too. 

 

“Slowpoke,” Lance mutters. 

 

Keith opens his mouth to retaliate, but Lance is already there. 

 

And then he’s kissing him. Lance has both his hands holding Keith’s face, drawing him close, kissing his with fervor. Uninhibited. 

 

Keith sighs into the kiss, relaxing against him. His hands fall to Lance’s waist, but Lance doesn’t loosen his hold. His fingertips are trembling.  

 

“Lance,” Keith parts enough to say. “What is it?” 

 

“I love you too,” Lance tells him breathless. Soft fingertips brush a bit of hair out of Keith’s eyes. Lance looks at him, ocean-deep, smiling with the edges turned down, just a little, because this is so much. He drops his head against Keith’s shoulder and holds him close. 

 

Keith’s chest heaves as he draws in a breath. He tightens his arms around Lance, palm settling against the back of his neck. He swallows. He didn’t say the words, though he’s felt them all along. For Lance to understand his heart, so completely, and to accept it, so openly. It means the world. He nods, every sentiment stuck in his throat, and Lance holds him tighter. He gets it. 

 

“Guys!!!!” 

 

There’s barely a half-second of warning before Hunk barrels into them, throwing his full weight into the tackle. Keith and Lance stagger, the three of them a mess of flailing arms. 

 

“Oh man that was so cool!! You--- and then we!!!” 

 

Pidge jumps in, breathless with happiness. “Keith!!” 

 

Keith laughs, untangling an arm to loop it around her too. 

 

“Keith!” Shiro bursts through the hanger’s door, his cheeks ruddy with excitement. “The second sword was unexpected,” 

 

Keith grins. “I’ve been working on it for awhile,” 

 

“Yeah! Why didn’t you didn’t tell me you could do that!!” Lance pushes him. The tips of his ears are red. His eyes are bright. “This is  _ exactly _ what I mean, okay?! You have a sword, cool, great, works for me. I get a sword. Even cooler. Better. Y’know, since it’s me. But now you have TWO swords? It’s excessive, Keith. You always gotta---” 

 

“Lance. Shut up.” 

 

Lance pokes his chest. “I’ll shut up when I’m done, thank you very much, and,” 

 

Keith slips a hand over Lance’s sputtering mouth. Seriousness creeps into his voice. They won, but, “Ghoj got away,” 

 

Pidge shrugs, laughing at Lance’s wide, indignant eyes, and raised brows before she responds. “True. But I can grab all kinds of info about the Qej from the Riveriaj, now that I have access to all of its data logs.” 

 

Shiro agrees. “The coalition is committed to staying in this sector as long as we’re needed.” 

 

“I mean,” Hunk purses his lips, “Even though the big boss is still out there, there are plenty of people we can help by getting rid of some of the other bad guys.” 

 

Keith nods. That’s true. 

 

Krolia intejects, entering the room with Kolivan and some of the other Blades at her side. “Ghoj won’t be able to escape entirely.” She raises her hand, flipping open the handheld comm. “I placed a tracking device on his cruiser shortly after he slipped away from the battle.” 

 

Someone cheers (Lance) and Pidge looks at the device with hungry eyes and Shiro’s alarm goes off, meaning it’s time to put Luara down for her nap. The group troops upstairs for debriefing, but more importantly, to take a rest before figuring out what their next step will be. 

 

Keith leads the way through the familiar ship. Before, Shiro had called it his home, and maybe it is. His mother is here with him. And his friends, who are also like family. Together, all of them, they’ll continue to do the best they can. For the universe. For one another. He isn’t alone. 

 

These are the facts. 

 

*

 

Later, Keith will realize that Lance has slipped away again. 

 

It’s gotten late, Atlas time, and somewhere in between outlining a report for the Excalr system emergency meeting---it’ll be held within the next 72 varga, and the Blades have  _ graciously _ been invited back into the proceedings---and the bizarre party games Coran forced upon the collective (“It’s just karaoke,” Pidge had muttered at Coran’s lengthly explanation,) Keith managed to lose track of Lance. 

 

He has a way, (Keith has realized this only after years of knowing Lance), of being so obtrusively loud, that when he wants to, Lance is very good at going unnoticed. 

 

Keith waves goodnight to Shiro and Curtis, ducking out of the common room. Most of the others have already gone to bed. The ship is quiet. 

 

Keith finds his way to the kitchen. He opens the door of Hunk’s massive refrigerator, momentarily befuddled by the sheer number of strange things inside. But, after a little sniffing, and some cautious finger-licks, Keith finds the ingredient for which he’s looking: the not-peanut peanut butter. The jam is easier to find. He makes two sandwiches, carefully cutting them into triangles. 

 

Taking the plate, Keith pads down the hall. He passes his old room. Stops instead at Allura’s. He pauses, drawing in a breath before touching the entry pad. 

 

The door slides open. 

 

It’s dark. 

 

Lance is sitting, not on the bed, but on the floor, looking out into space. Allura’s room is one of the few that was designed with windows. Floor to ceiling, two tall windows reveal decadent ribbons of stars when the metal blinds are lifted. 

 

Lance has changed into pajamas, soft looking clothes that catch around his ankles as he twists to see who opened the door. 

 

“Hey Keith,” he says, swiping at the end of his nose and his cheeks with the back of his hand. The Altean marks stand out bright against his tear-stained skin. “W-what’s up?” 

 

Keith grunts out a response, settling down cross-legged beside him. He holds out the plate. Lance takes one of the triangles, biting into it without another word. 

 

Keith sets the plate down between them and eats one himself, eyes on the unfamiliar constellations swirling outside the window. He fishes a hydration pack out of one of his pockets---the robes that came with the paladin closets are surprisingly roomy---and passes it to Lance. 

 

The stars are beautiful. Keith has always thought that. But he thinks, at this moment, that they make for lonely company. 

 

“The blue lion went dormant again as soon as it was inside the Atlas.” Lance says, after awhile. 

 

Sandwiches eaten, Keith tucks his hands into his lap. “I know.” 

 

“She was with us today,” Lance says, pulling his legs in close. “Just as much as you, or me, or Shiro, or anybody…” 

 

Keith nods. It might sound fantastical, but their lives have been pushing the boundaries of believability for the better part of a decade. Allura is very much still a part of every victory. 

 

The air vents quietly hiss out their closure, and the room stills. Just a gentle rise and fall of Lance’s breaths beside him. The moment lengthens into something bittersweet, until Keith brings it to an end, 

 

“Lance…” 

 

Lance tilts his head, a silent invitation for Keith to continue. 

 

Keith echoes something he’s said before. He means it now, just as much as he did then: “You deserve to be happy.” 

 

Lance breaks into a smile, a little different from the one he wore in response last time. “I am.” He breathes out a laugh, taking Keith’s hand, one thumb over his knuckles. “You know I am.” 

 

Keith squeezes his hand in reply, knitting their fingers together. In some way, maybe, he’s trying to ask for permission. 

 

Not to replace her, never to replace her---because, for Keith, love doesn’t work like that. His heart could never work that way. One flame begets the next, each one bright and precious, emboldening and strengthening with time. 

 

Keith doesn’t have the exact words, but he pulls Lance closer to him, shoulder to shoulder, and leans to rest his head against Lance’s. He lifts the hand that’s free, curling his little finger until the nail is directly over a pinprick of white, shining from hundreds of lightyears away. 

 

“Do you see that,” Keith asks. 

 

“Huh?” Lance tilts his head and squints. “See what? You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, Keith. There are a lot of stars out there.” 

 

“That.” Keith says, angling just so, to catch Lance’s mouth in a kiss. 

 

Lance flails, pushing Keith off. “Ke-that was--You!!!” He looks furious. “ _ I’m _ supposed to be the one with the smooth lines!! You can’t do that!” 

 

Keith is laughing. Lance pushes him again and he lets himself be pressed to the floor, shoulders shaking in laughs. “Says who?” 

 

Lance shifts, frowning down over top of him. “Everyone? Ever heard of Loverboy Lance?” 

 

Keith shakes his head resolutely, lips caught in his teeth. He’s fighting a smile. 

 

“Listen up, Keith-y boy,” Lance continues, smacking his chest, “This is slander. I’m gonna call the space cops.” 

 

Keith snorts and Lance crawls on top of him, pressing his cheeks. “It was the best episode! There were action figures!!!!” 

 

“I mustchave missedtha--” Keith says through his squished mouth. 

 

Lance rolls his eyes. “At one point, we had the number one rating in sixteen galaxies, Keith!! SIXTEEN!” He grumbles, under his breath, “Yeah right, you ‘missed it,’ yeah, freaking, right.” And then Lance is kissing him, forearm resting on the floor besides Keith’s head, knees straddling Keith’s waist. 

 

Keith’s grin catches his, one tooth snagging against Lance’s lips, deepening the kiss into something headier. He hooks one leg around Lance’s waist and pulls him closer, down on top of him. Lance groans, eyes fluttering prettily at the sensation. 

 

Keith is immediately addicted to Lance’s weight on top of him. The vulnerable noise he makes when Keith slides rough fingertips under his waistband. The taste of his skin. 

 

“Hey Lance,” Keith says, a few moments later, as Lance’s hands find their way under his shirt. His mouth is hot over Keith’s neck, and Keith shifts, angling his head with a shudder to give him better access. 

 

“Mmm?” Lance responds, not overly concerned.

 

“Come back to my room.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance mouths against him, and then he realizes what Keith said. He sits up, mouth glossy and hair disheveled. “Now?” he squeaks. 

 

Keith looks up at him, one hand resting on Lance’s hip. Thumb pressed into the sensuous crest of Lance’s hip bone, he nods. 

 

Lance has the gall to look  _ flustered, _ as if he wasn’t the one who crawled on top of Keith. As if he wasn’t in the process of sucking hard enough to bruise on his neck mere seconds ago. “Okay.” he says, voice still a little squeaky. 

 

Keith sits up on his elbows. He blinks, trying to word the next part carefully. He doesn’t want to fight. “I mean. If you want…” 

 

Lance puts one hand up. “Dude.” He raises an eyebrow and motions grandly to his lap. “Lancey Lance is  _ good to go _ .” 

 

Which is terrible and just so exactly like Lance that Keith can’t help but snort out a groan, shaking his head as he slumps back onto the floor. “Never say that again.” 

 

Lance has a self-satisfied smile on his face as he crawls off of Keith and helps him up, straightening his pajama pants with an awful little wink. 

 

Keith sighs, not actually put off----a testament only to how completely gone he is---and pulls Lance out the door. Luckily it’s late enough that the halls are empty, and his room is not far. 

 

“I just thought you’d require more wooing, that’s all,” Lance hisses in a whisper that is not at all quiet. “You’re a tough guy to read, so I was ready. To woo, that is. Chocolates and flowers and the whole shebang. Y’know, wine and dine,” 

 

Keith pushes him inside his room and promptly slaps the ‘do not disturb’ notification on the lockpad. He can think of nothing that he needs less than chocolate and flowers from Lance. 

 

He tugs his shirt over his head and Lance falls silent. 

 

“But this is good too,” Lance offers. 

 

“Gee Lance. I’m glad,” Keith returns. He means it sarcastically, but it comes off a little too sweet to land that way. 

 

Lance shoots him a smile, genuine, and unbuttons his pajama top. He’s still shrugging it off as he leans forward, towards Keith. His mouth is open, lips parted, as Keith noses past his cheek, hands falling again on Lance’s narrow hips. They tumble to the bed, mouths and hands working, pants soon discarded. He kisses down Lance’s exposed chest, over the pretty jut of his collarbones, past the small Altean mark on his breastbone, taking note of the birthmark on his abs, just to the right of his wispy hair. There will be ample time to map out every piece of him, to memorize every freckle, the sharp planes and lithe curves. 

 

But Keith wants too, and that can wait for a different night. 

 

Lance is  _ so much _ underneath him. All the skin he’s longed to touch. Stupid quips and breathless requests. He’s a bruising grip and the most carefree laugh. Solid muscle, broad palms, blue eyes. Licentious and flirty and ridiculous and perfect.

 

*

 

Later, when they’re close to sleep, Lance is slack against him, back to Keith’s chest. 

 

Lance lifts one hand up, tangling lazy fingers through Keith’s hair. He twists, smiling, and tilts his head for a kiss that doesn’t exactly match up. The lack of coordination doesn’t matter. He relaxes, and Keith can’t help but notice, for the hundredth time, that Lance fits perfectly in his arms. 

 

Keith presses his nose firmly ‘gainst the delicate vertebrae of Lance’s neck, breathing in deep. He smells familiar. Like expensive soap, like citrus, now tinged with something masculine. Like love, like belonging. Like a warm feeling from a long time ago.  

 

*

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted that big fat luscious TWENTY chapters…..so I wrote an epilogue. This is the spiritual end of the fic, but you know I can’t resist some sweet domestic klance fluff so ----->


	20. Chapter 20

 

***

 

_ Bedroom, small ranch style house on several acres of farmland, twenty minute walk from Norma’s, thirty minutes by car to Lance’s parents, five hours away from the Holt’s lab (three if Keith is behind the wheel), United States, Earth, Copernican System, Orion Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy. _

 

Keith snuggles into the sheets, tugging the quilt higher, almost up over his head. 

 

The space wolf is warm and sleepy and almost-purring against his back. Keith is not ready to get up yet. He can hear Lance singing something down the hall---he’s sure to have it stuck in his head all day long if he listens too close, so it pulls the quilt up even further.  

 

It must work because when he opens his eyes again, the room is much brighter. He sits up in bed, stretching his arms over his head with a satisfied groan. Keith slides out of bed, scratching absent minded as he bends over to retrieve his boxers from the floor where they were tossed from the night before. 

 

In the bathroom, he pokes around at the sink, moving the numerous bottles and jars until he finds a hair tie. He twists his hair into a lazy top-knot and follows the smell of coffee to the kitchen. 

 

“You wasted the whole morning,” Lance accuses him straightaway, demanding a kiss before he’ll hand over a cup of coffee. 

 

Keith raises his eyebrows and takes a fresh mug out of the cabinet, but Lance looks at him with such open-mouthed betrayal that he puts it back. 

 

The kiss is too sloppy to be called a ‘peck’ and too heated for a simple ‘good morning.’ Keith pushes Lance against the counter, biting at his lip when Lance grins in anticipation. But Keith doesn’t follow through, simply plucking the mug from Lance’s hand as soon as his guard is down. 

 

Keith sips, ignoring Lance’s dramatic eye roll and the way he mutters something rude, as if they don’t do this every morning. 

 

“I was having a really weird dream.” Keith says, three sips in. Something about the way Lance is slouched over at the kitchen table, mindlessly scrolling through his comm, made Keith remember.  “My mom asked me what my favorite ice cream flavor is, and I told her mint-chocolate chip, even though I hate mint-chocolate chip.” 

 

“You do.” Lance nods agreeing. 

 

“Yeah. And then the wolf looked at me and said, ‘Are you sure it’s not strawberry?’” Keith takes another long sip of his coffee. “Really weird. Strawberry ice cream is okay, but it’s not.” He pauses, considering. “My favorite.” 

 

Lance gives him an incredulous look. “Yeah, well. I told you not to eat those buffalo chicken wings last night.” 

 

(He actually, did not tell Keith that. At all. In fact, Keith was all ready to cook dinner---he bought the ingredients and everything, Hunk would be proud---and Lance sat on the couch and whined that they should order in instead. And Keith is weak to junk food. And Lance.) 

 

“Keith.” Lance’s hand drops to the table with a smack a few minutes later. His tone becomes more urgent. “Keith!” 

 

“What?” Keith asks in alarm, sliding down from where he’s been perched on the kitchen counter. 

 

“Oh my god.” Lance stands up, expression stricken. 

 

“What is it?” Keith asks, looking at the comm Lance is waving in his face. He realizes a split second later. “Shit!!” 

 

“I can’t believe we forgot!!!!” Lance shouts, wrenching open the fridge to pile old take-out containers into the trash can. 

 

Keith grabs a washrag, now furiously cleaning the countertops of coffee stains and cereal dust. “I thought we wrote it down on the calendar!!” 

 

“Yeah, mullet for brains! And where is that!!?” 

 

The calendar planner is exactly where Keith left it three days ago: on his desk in their bedroom aboard the Kestrel. 

 

“Shit!” Keith repeats again. 

 

Lance ties up the trash bag and gets ready to take it out. He leans forward with narrowed eyes. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one!” 

 

“No, I’m not!” Keith’s voice cracks and raises a pitch, which he ignores. “Lance! I’ve never been responsible!!” 

 

Lance throws up one arm in a huff. “You’re the leader!!” 

 

“I’m the hothead!” 

 

Lance kicks open the door, ranting to no one, “Oh  _ now  _ he wants to be the hothead! That’s just  _ great _ !” 

 

When he returns, Lance has a plan. “Okay. I have a plan. It’s okay.” He splays his fingers out in the air in front of him, waving his hands as he talks. “We have two hours. I’ll take the bathroom and bedroom. You clean up the living room and sweep. It’s not that bad.” 

 

Keith nods. They’ve only been home from the latest Blade initiative for three days, so their house is fairly clean. Fairly. 

 

They go to work. Keith arranges the dog beds that the wolf refuses to use against the wall where they’ll be out of the way. He shoves the stray cords from the tv back under the stand so it looks more tidy. There’s no less than four throw blankets in this room alone, Keith folds these, Garrison regulation style, and stacks them neatly on one corner of the couch.  

 

Towel in one hand and cleaning spray in the other, Keith surveys the room. 

 

It’s cluttered because he’s a little bit of a pack-rat and Lance is sentimental, so they have a bad habit of keeping random stuff. The bookshelves are crammed full of odd-and-ends that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone, but are important all the same. A glittery ticket stub (from an aquarium-esque place they visited the last time they were in the Diurel system) is tucked into a book Keith bought on Godnar-7. He hasn’t read the book---he always starts nodding off a few pages in---but it seems cool. There’s a pair of tall glass bottles that held a fizzy drink that they both really liked. The soda was purple and so were Lance’s lips when Keith leaned over, bubbles still bursting in his mouth, and kissed him noisily in the market where they bought the drinks. 

 

There’s trinkets and also more important things, like medals and Keith’s mantle from the Blade, and a keychain that Keith’s mom gave him that used to be his dad’s. Treasures. 

 

Precious memories are elsewhere too, not just in the bottles and bookmarks and keychains that  Keith would never throw away. The walls are covered in photographs, most of them shot and developed by Keith. There’s scenes from all over the universe---but some from Earth too: 

 

Lance splattered in yellow from when they repainted the kitchen. 

 

Lance holding both Norma’s dogs and looking incredibly disgusted by Honeydew’s smelly breath. 

 

Shiro and Hunk and Lance wearing overalls and plaid because they thought it would be hilarious to dress as stereotypical ‘farmers’ for an important regulatory meeting at the Garrison. (There is a story behind this: one of the new officers from another division who was not familiar with all of the details of Voltron, heard that Lance lived on a farm and made a snide comment about it. Keith saw red---but Lance pointed out that this was a much funnier way to make the officer regret all of their decisions. The officer definitely felt like an ass when the leader of the Atlas AND the Blades AND the rest of Voltron all showed up dressed to bale hay and drive tractors. Lance’s solution also led to fewer injuries than Keith’s would have. Keith agreed with the plan, mostly, but the fact that Lance looks cute in overalls definitely played a factor.) 

 

One picture that Keith didn’t take, but that he especially likes: he and Lance’s mother are standing side-by-side, holding up a cake. They made it together, one random Sunday, when Keith first moved in. 

 

The newest edition to the collection is a picture of Lance absolutely beaming with a freshly caught fish in his hands. Luis is in the background looking serene with his toes in the lake, while Alec is making a face, about to respond to something Devon snickered, just out of shot. The camping trip with Lance’s high school friends was disastrous---it rained the whole time and Lance  _ hates _ sleeping in tents and Luis somehow got poison ivy all over his body---but Keith has never laughed so much with people he met so recently. They’ll probably go again next year and make it a tradition. 

 

Keith grabs a broom and starts sweeping the hardwood floors. A vacuum would be better but the space wolf doesn’t like the sound they make, so every time they buy a new one, she hides it. And it’s very difficult to find something that could be transported anywhere in the galaxy. This habit of hers is especially annoying because babygirl sheds _ a lot.  _

 

(Lance is quick to point out, when given the chance, that Kaltenecker does not shed, and also does not steal vacuums. Or anything else.) 

 

(Keith is seldom impressed with this argument. Kaltenecker has proven to be useless in battle. And the cow also does not make the whole day’s stress dissolve away with a bark and a happy tail wag.) 

 

Lance joins Keith in the living room, pulling off yellow rubber gloves and running a hand through his hair. He slumps over Keith’s back and surveys the progress. 

 

“I think it looks better,” Keith says. 

 

“Mmmm,” Lance considers this, chin on Keith’s shoulder. “It’s perfect.” 

 

It’s not. 

 

But. Keith wouldn’t trade it for any other place in the universe. 

 

And they happen to be running out of time before their friends start arriving. 

 

“I still need to shower,” Keith realizes. He never managed to put on more than yesterday’s boxers. 

 

Keith can feel Lance’s cheeks pull into a wicked grin. “...I could help,” he says, coupling the suggestion with a kiss pressed to the underside of Keith’s jaw. 

 

Keith lets his eyes fall shut and tilts his head back as Lance’s hands wander from his stomach to underneath Keith’s shorts. They’re low on time but...

 

The sound of a car door slamming outside.

 

Lance yanks his hands back and Keith stands up straight. 

 

They look at each other with panicked eyes, because 

 

Shiro is always early. 

 

Keith dives down the hall into their bedroom. He stumbles into the closet, pulling on the closest pair of black jeans and a tee shirt that seems reasonably clean. 

 

He can hear Lance bullshitting to Shiro and Curtis about how they’ve been waiting for ages, was the traffic bad or something? 

 

Shiro says something dry and Lance laughs at being so transparent. 

 

“Shiro!” Keith finds Shiro and immediately is wrapped up in the warmest hug. It’s only been about a phoeb since the Kestrel was last docked aboard the Atlas, but that’s still a phoeb too long. 

 

“Keith! You’re looking good! How was---” 

 

“He didn’t tell me  _ I  _ was looking good,” Lance fake whispers to Curtis. Curtis closes his eyes and nods politely. 

 

“You’re looking good, Lance.” Shiro says with grave intention. “Great. Phenomenal even,” 

 

“Don’t I know it,” Lance preens, taking Luara from Curtis. The last time she visited, she liked the rabbits, and so this time, Lance went out of his way to make sure the farm has baby bunnies to show her. It’s been a whole thing. 

 

“I heard there was a party here,” Matt’s nasally voice calls from outside. “Can anyone confirm there’s a party in the vicinity?!” 

 

Pidge laughs as though this is actually a good joke before letting herself in through the side door. “I told you Shiro would beat us,” she calls out to her brother before smacking Lance across the back in greeting. “You should’ve told us you only got back on Wednesday, we could have rescheduled.” 

 

“The mission on Tei’kar was tough to get wrapped up,” Keith says, giving her cheek a kiss in greeting. “But we didn’t want to reschedule.” 

 

“More like you completely forgot,” Hunk chimes in, a cooler over one shoulder. His other hand has a big bag of tupperware containers. Keith’s mouth is almost watering at the sight alone. He takes the bag and gives Hunk a side hug in return. Even with just one arm, Hunk can smoosh him.

 

“You boys didn’t tell me you toured planet Motorola,” Coran muses, picking up a black box from near the television. 

 

“We didn’t,” Lance says, motioning for him to put it down, “That’s our internet router, can you---okay sure, unplug it, that’s---” 

 

They move to Keith and Lance’s tiny kitchen, the group talking over one another and already getting too loud. Lance is in rare form, hands back in forth in front of him as he tells a highly embellished rendition of their last mission and gets everyone something to drink. The Altean marks stand out bright, even as his eyes crinkle in amusement (or widen in disbelief when someone calls him out on his ‘completely and totally true’ anecdote). 

 

Keith takes up a spot at the table, at the edge of the room but in the middle of every conversation, heart full and cheeks soon to be sore from laughing. He’s exactly where he wants to be. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!! This is a lot of words about keith, but I am nothing if not a keith fan LOL 
> 
> I want to say that I truly, truly appreciate all of the kind support from my readers...really, if you’ve left a comment or kudos, already, thank you so so much!! If anyone wants to leave a comment on this last chapter, I’d love to hear what you thought about the end...or any of the rest of it lol

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi hi thank you for reading!! I'll be updating these small bites of fic pretty frequently til the thing is done, I hope! if you wanna chat I'm at @jacqulinetan on twitter


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